Cover Up
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Lisa drags Len to watch her get a tattoo, but during her session, Len becomes drawn to tattoo artist extraordinaire Barry Allen. He decides to chance asking Barry for help covering up a secret he has, one that he wears on his back, underneath his clothes. Coldflash. Barry Allen, Leonard Snart.
1. Chapter 1

**Lisa drags a disapproving Len down to _The Flash Tattoo Studio_ to watch her get a tattoo, but during her session, Len becomes drawn to the artist, tattoo artist extraordinaire Barry Allen. After seeing the amazing job he does on Lisa's one-of-a-kind tattoo, he decides to chance asking Barry for help covering up a secret he has, one that he wears on his back, underneath his clothes, and speaks of every foul thing his father ever did to him.**

 **(AU with some nods to canon. Mention of Lisa dating Cisco. Barry has his speed force powers…maybe. Len's story line is pretty much the only one that stays truest to form. Just for visualization purposes, Lisa's about 25, Barry's about 27, and Len's about 32.)**

 **Warning for angst, eventual discussion of child abuse, scars, and Nora Allen's death. Otherwise, lots of fun, fluffy sibling bonding, Len's overprotective, Barry has his speed force powers…maybe, and he's kind of a flirt xD**

"Lisa, you are not getting a tattoo, and that's final," Len barks, marching down the sidewalk after his sister. Despite his determined pace, and the lengthy strides his size advantage gives him, she somehow manages to stay one step ahead.

"Len, that's the fifth time you've said that," she tosses at him in a mocking rendition of her older brother's impotent tirade. She stops when she reaches the glass door to _The_ _Flash Tattoo Studio_ , located in, what could be considered, Central City's scenic Boho District. She puts her hand on the door handle and glances over her shoulder, flashing a triumphant smile. "How's that working for ya?"

Len grumbles _spoiled (something) brat_ as he approaches the door, but Lisa knows better than to care about her brother's tantrums.

"Tell me again why you need to mark yourself up in this ludicrous manner?"

"It's not _ludicrous_ ," she argues. She pulls the door open, sleigh-style bells clanging overhead. "I've been wanting to get a tattoo for _ages_."

"But _why's_ the question," Len persists, following her inside, instinctively keeping close to her back. "Why would you voluntarily violate your skin?"

"Because they're beautiful," she says, gesturing emphatically to the pictures hanging on the blood red walls of the shop, each one, Len has to admit, a singular work of art, "and exciting…and _sexy_." Len rolls his head on his shoulders. _There's_ an image he doesn't need, not when it involves his sister. "Hey, all the guys _you_ hang out with have 'em."

"The guys I hang out with are criminals," he says in a lowered voice.

"Look, you've got your little… _toy_ to play with," Lisa teases in a veiled reference to her brother's signature weapon – his cold gun. "I don't rob banks or blow up armored trucks. I just want to get a tattoo."

Len won't argue that point. His current lifestyle wasn't her choice, but it affects her more than he expected it would. Honestly, he can't say he gave it too much thought when things began. A lot of the decisions his younger self made were done out of desperation. Regretfully, he doesn't know whether or not he'd change it if he could.

If he ever finds a way to go back in time and give himself fair warning, maybe he'll have an answer to that question.

He shrugs a shoulder, giving this argument up for his petulant sister.

"Fair enough," he admits. "But then, why am _I_ here? I ain't paying for you to get graffiti-ed."

" _I'm_ paying," Lisa groans. She could choose to be insulted that that's why he thinks she brought him along, but a lot of things with Len boil down to money. It's not greed; it's force of habit. When you grow up being denied the things that you need, you hold on with both hands to everything you've got. That includes family. And _that's_ why she demanded that Len go with her. She finds an empty leather loveseat amidst a row of small couches and chairs in the waiting area, and sits. These seats, lined up against the wall, overlook the work stations, where three artists are already tattooing customers. " _You're_ here for sibling bonding." She pats the seat beside her and Len takes it, spreading his legs when he sits and leaving no extra room, discouraging anyone else from trying to sit next to them. "Lord knows you're rarely ever home anymore. I wanted to do something fun with my big brother. That's all."

"We could've gone bowling." Len moves an inch closer when her head finds his shoulder. "That's fun, and probably way less expensive." She puts a hand on his forearm, and he sighs, doing his best to relax for her sake. "Plus, I could have gotten a beer."

"Len," she chuckles, "it's only ten o'clock in the morning."

"It's five o'clock somewhere."

Len leans against the wall behind them and does what he always does – scopes out every inch of the place. He counts the number of windows, identifies exit and entry points, isolates how many people there are while making note of sex, age, estimating heights and weights, pinpointing purses and backpacks, looking for shapes or bulges that could indicate a weapon inside, determining any and all possibility of danger. It's something he does so automatically, he's not always aware he's doing it anymore. It's saved his ass time and time again, but there's a point to which it frustrates him that he can't switch it off and enjoy five minutes of peace with Lisa.

The people in the shop are, for the most part, minding their own business - checking their phones, listening to iPods, reading, but on his second sweep, he notices that he and Lisa have attracted the attention of one man in particular, over at one of the tattoo stations. He wasn't there a second ago. He seems to have popped up out of nowhere. In his red, long-sleeve tee with a neon yellow lightning bolt smack dab in the center, Len would have remembered him. He's busy rearranging a tray of inks and prepping a tattoo gun, but he glances at them between tasks. Len bristles when he realizes, after a few moments of observation, it's not _them_ that he's looking at, but Lisa.

Len squares his shoulders, his body going rigid.

"Len?" Lisa tilts her face up to look at her brother. "Len…are you alright?"

"Lisa?" the man calls out with a smile and a wave. "Lisa Snart?"

"Yeah," she says, raising her head. "That's me." Her eyes fly open. "Oh my God!" She leaps out of the loveseat and rushes the man while Len follows unhurriedly behind. "Barry Allen! _The_ Barry Allen!"

"That's me," he says, ducking his head, eschewing a sudden blush. Len wonders how much of that's an act. The way everyone's eyes light up when Lisa says his name, he must be some kind of tattoo rock star. He'd have to be supremely grounded not to let that get to him…or one hell of an actor to make it seem that way.

 _Or_ he could be a genuinely humble man. Len scoffs to himself. Who would have thought there were any of those still around? Len sure as hell doesn't run in to too many.

"I can't believe _you're_ going to be doing my tattoo," Lisa raves. "I just…the master himself. Wow." She thrusts a hand out, and with a polite chuckle, Barry takes it.

"It was too intriguing a request to pass up," Barry says, intermittently distracted by the presence of the hulking figure standing behind her like a bodyguard. "And this is…"

"My brother." Lisa grabs Len's arm and tries to tug him forward, but he refuses to budge. "His name's Len." Barry offers up his hand for a shake. Len looks at it a moment, then at Barry and his annoyingly bright smile. Len adverts his eyes without a hand shake or a word. Lisa shakes her head. "Don't mind him," she says, drawing Barry's attention away from her brother's surly attitude. "He hates everyone on principle."

"Coolness," Barry says, dropping his hand. "Good to know. Well, Lisa" – Barry takes her by the shoulders and leads her to a low stool – "why don't you make yourself comfortable, and we'll get started."

Lisa sits, shuffling her feet on the black-and-white checkerboard floor, giddy with excitement. Barry returns to his tattoo gun and his tray of inks, doing a last minute check on his tools as he prepares to get to work.

"You know," Len says, bending low to push his stern expression into his sister's face, "I _don't_ approve."

She bounces up an inch and pecks a kiss to his chin.

"And that's what makes this so much fun!"

"Did you like the piece I emailed you?" Barry asks, interrupting unintentionally. Lisa spins on the stool to face him, blocking Len out and leaving him to loiter nearby.

"Oh, yeah," she says. "I loved it! I want it to look exactly like that. Don't change a thing."

"So, what tattoo are you getting?" Len asks, deciding to join in on the conversation if he's going to stand around for a few hours doing nothing. He'd return to the loveseat if it didn't seem so far from Lisa. Besides, in their absence, it became occupied by two girls sharing a single pastel pink headset, giggling over a video they're watching on a tablet about the size of a paperback book.

"You'll just have to wait and see," Lisa says, patiently letting Barry turn her around and position her in better light.

"I'm gonna need you to lift up your shirt, Lisa," Barry says, pulling up another stool and sitting on it.

"I'm wearing a bikini top under, so I can take it off," Lisa replies.

"Excellent."

Len's fingers curl, his tense hands becoming tenser fists, that one exchange causing him to reach reflexively for a gun holstered to his thigh that's not there at the moment.

"So, how come _you_ don't have any tatts?" Len asks snidely. Since he can't shoot the bastard who told his sister to undress, he decides to criticize - in this case, Barry's pristine skin, this supposed _master_ tattoo artist without a single tatt on his body. From what Len has seen of tattoo artists, they're usually covered in tatts. The more coveted the artist, the less room left to spare.

"My skin doesn't take ink," Barry explains, running a pink disposable BIC razor carefully over Lisa's right shoulder. "It's rare, but it happens to some people. In my case, it's kind of drastic."

Len makes a skeptical noise. " _That's_ convenient."

"Not in my business, it's not." Barry tosses the razor in the trash. He puts his hand down on the counter next to him, palm flat to stretch out the skin. "When you're a tattoo artist with no tatts, believe me, your credibility gets called into question." He dips his needles in a cup of black ink, fires up his tattoo gun, and starts signing his name on the back of his hand. It's weird the way the gun, or is it his skin, shimmers, but almost as soon as the words _Barry Allen_ appear on his flesh, they're gone again, the ink absorbing through the layers and disappearing as if they'd never been there. "See?" Barry raises his hand for Len to see. "Not convenient. Obnoxious."

"Oh, come on, Len," Lisa says, smacking her brother on the knee. "Stop being such a pill and let the man do his job." She turns back to Barry, switching out his needles. "I saw your portfolio online last month. And the work you did at that Expo in Los Angeles? Man! You're just…incredible! Like some kind of tattoo superhero!"

"Thank you," Barry says, snapping on a pair of purple latex gloves. "I'm glad you like my work." He moves her back into position, his cheeks coloring at her unsolicited praise, and Len rolls his eyes.

"Is there going to be any actual tattooing going on here? Or are we gonna sit around and talk about how _amazing_ Barry is for the next two hours?"

"I'm getting there," Barry says, dipping his fresh needles into a new cup of ink. "You can't rush the creative process."

"Strange words coming from a man who chose to call his studio _The Flash_."

Barry glances up over Lisa's shoulder with a smirk twitching his lips.

"Point one for Mr. Snart," Barry says, starting his gun. "Well played."

"Just call him _Captain Cold_ ," Lisa says, smiling mischievously at her brother. Len doesn't see. He has his eyes locked on the man sitting behind her. "That's what _I_ call him."

"Hmm," Barry hums, repeating the name _Captain Cold_ , _Captain Cold_ , over and over while he works, his tongue wetting his lips after each time. Len has always hated that nickname. His sister picked it out for him. Correction, his sister's wannabe boyfriend Cisco Ramon picked it out for him. Len didn't actually hear him say it, or he would have fattened his lip, but Lisa told him about it the first time she used it. Len figured that if he ignored it, like most things, it would go away. But that's something that could never be said for his sister. Once she knows something has gotten under his skin, she turns making it stay there into a profession.

But hearing Barry say it, mumbling it under his breath, getting his mouth around it, with his hazel-green eyes piercing and intense as he zeroes in on Lisa's tattoo and nothing else, makes Len want to hear him say it again.

"You know, Len, you might consider finally buckling down and getting one of these, too."

Len sees a smile start on Barry's lips.

"What do you mean _finally_?"

"Isn't it standard equipment for tough guys like yourself to work out a lot and cover their bodies in tattoos?"

Barry's smile grows, and Len is tempted to give Lisa a pinch for turning him into this man's source of amusement.

Although, that smile of his isn't too bad a thing to look at.

"You would know better than me, Lees."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lisa asks. Barry turns his head and chuckles, and Len feels slightly victorious.

"Exactly what you think it means." Len grins, glad to turn the tables for a bit.

"I'm no groupie, if that's what you're implying," Lisa argues. Barry goes from amused to confused. Len looks at his sister and scowls. Lisa has a bad habit of talking vaguely but loudly about things she shouldn't discuss in public. Len tries to think up a subject to switch to, but small talk has never been his forte.

Lisa does it for him, but it doesn't make things better.

"Don't knock it," she says. "I think you'd look hot with a tattoo."

Barry's eyes snap up at Len, and this time it's Len's face that starts changing colors.

"I wasn't asking your opinion, but the fact that you're my sister makes that comment _extremely_ disturbing."

"You know…" Barry speaks up, wiping off a spot and going over it again, "not to interrupt this fascinating sibling rivalry, that creepy comment aside, I think your sister's right." When Barry glances up at Len again, it's with a definite smolder in his eyes. "You would look pretty _hot_ with a tattoo."

"See?" Lisa says, delivering another smack to Len's knee. But Len doesn't feel that one. There's no blood left in his body anywhere except for one specific place. "And this guy knows his business."

Len is about to come back with a remark about how Barry is trying to drum up more business for himself, but he can't, because his mouth has gone completely dry.

"You just don't want to admit that you're a handsome man, underneath your icy exterior," she finishes.

Len clears his throat, uneasy with the feeling of a dozen eyes watching him. But even though the studio is busy, with other artists working and a line of customers waiting a whole room away, no one's actually paying much attention. All of that attention is coming from Barry Allen. Barry Allen and his smoldering eyes.

" _I'll_ decide if and when I want to deface my body, thank you very much. And when did the topic of conversation become me, anyway?"

"I don't know about her, but I'm just passing the time," Barry says not too seriously, but the mood in the room returns to something close to normal the moment his eyes shift to his tray of inks. "Speaking of, she's gonna be a couple hours if you want to pull up a chair."

"No, thanks," Len says. "I'm fine standing."

"Good," Barry says, returning to Lisa's tattoo, but with the sliver of a glance reserved for Len, "because I think I could watch you stand there like that…all…day…long."

Lisa puts a hand over her mouth and guffaws.

Len stalks off and grabs a chair.

* * *

"…but I'm thinking of switching majors. I don't know. I just don't think that computers are my thing."

"Well, what is your thing?" Barry asks, and it astounds Len how sincere he sounds, like he really wants to know what his sister wants to do with the rest of her life. Len imagines that making conversation is part of the job, but from what he can hear coming from the other stations (the ones where customers aren't whimpering in pain, outright crying, or the one guy moaning like he's having sex, which Barry assured them was normal before he had to take a pause and laugh it out), the majority of the other artists listen to their customers jabber, then add a perfunctory, "A-ha, a-ha," during the appropriate pauses. But Barry actively listens. He asks questions. He offers suggestions. He and Lisa are having an actual discussion about her life choices, and he doesn't seem to mind that she barely lets him get a word in otherwise.

There's something about his attentiveness that Len finds kind of attractive.

However, listening to his sister talk about herself for the past few hours has Len about ready to bail for a jog around the block, to stretch his legs and get a breath of fresh air. At least Lisa's chattering has taken the pressure off of Len to be entertaining.

And it's worth sticking around for the insights into Barry's life when Lisa allows him the chance to slip them in.

"If I hadn't become a tattoo artist? I'd have probably gone into forensic science. You know, crime scene investigating and stuff. My family kind of has a history with law enforcement."

"Oh! See that, Len?" Lisa chirps suddenly. "You guys _do_ have something in common."

Len glares, blue eyes boring straight into her skull, but right then, Barry switches off his gun and puts it down.

"There you go," Barry says, wiping Lisa's shoulder a final time and handing her a mirror. "Cymothoe Capella" - Len looks up at the mention of that name – "otherwise known as…"

"The Golden Glider," Len finishes, mystified when he sees the butterfly Barry inked onto his sister's right shoulder, its wings spread, folding slightly at the fore wings as if caught in mid-flight, a shadow underneath denoting its upward lift, the various golden pigments on her skin sparkling as if lit by a single ray of sunlight. But as magnificent as her tattoo is, as masterfully as Barry has recreated it, hyper-real, like it might flutter off her back and fly away, it's the fact that she told him. Lisa told Barry Allen about the secret totem that she held on to her entire childhood.

She probably didn't tell him the whole story, about how their father abused them, that Len tried his best to protect her, and how she used to dream that this stupid ass butterfly would come to her bedroom window and carry them both away, but as far as Len knows, Lisa has never even mentioned The Golden Glider to anyone.

But if she didn't say something, why would a big shot like Barry Allen find the need to do the tattoo himself? It's only a butterfly. Len has seen a dozen butterfly tattoos. They'll probably see a dozen more on the way home.

Of course, none of them will be as spectacular as this one.

Barry stands and offers Lisa a hand up. He leads her over to a full length mirror, and steps back so she can have an unobstructed view.

"Do you like it?" Barry asks.

Len watches his sister stare at her reflection, transfixed by her new tattoo. Her lower lip trembles. She gets caught on the first word out of her mouth, and Len worries that she's going to cry. Lisa crying is something Len isn't used to. She's not the emotional type, regardless of a past that's tried endlessly to break her to pieces.

Len practically raised her. He's been with her through the thick and thin, but he's never been able to watch her cry.

"It's…it's amazing," she stammers. "I…it's so much more beautiful than I dreamed it would be. So much more than the email you sent me. I…thank you."

Barry smiles. "You're very welcome."

"I could…oh, I could just hug you!"

"Go for it." Barry opens his arms. "I'm always up for a hug."

Lisa throws herself in Barry's arms, and Barry, to Len's surprise, hugs her tight. This isn't the kind of token hug one stranger obliging gives another. There's something to it, some shred of understanding lying underneath.

When they pull apart, it's Lisa who lets go first.

She goes back to turning in front of the mirror, looking at her tattoo from different angles, stepping in and out of the light to see the ink sparkle. (How in the hell did Barry get it to _do_ that anyway?) Barry pulls out his cell phone and snaps a picture, which Lisa stops her twisting and turning long enough to pose properly for.

"What do you think, Len?" Lisa asks. In the reflection of the mirror, Len sees Barry's eyes flicker his way.

"It's…very nice," Len says, his tone non-committal. He doesn't want to give in to the things he might say if the venue were more private. Anyway, with Lisa there, Barry doesn't need Len to stroke his ego. "But here, put your shirt back on. You're gonna catch a cold." He tries to shove the shirt in her hands, but she bats it away.

"Not a chance! Now I have to head to Macy's and buy all the tank tops I can find so I can show it off!"

" _After_ it heals," Barry says, smoothing on a thin layer of clear ointment, then covering it with a bandage and taping it down. Len watches Barry's hands as he bandages his sister's shoulder. He's not being overprotective, he just…can't seem to help himself. "Follow the directions on the follow-up email I'm going to send you, but when it heals up, go ahead and show off your artwork all you want. Just make sure you tell everyone where you got it." Barry gives her a wink.

"Absolutely! And you'll charge my card?"

"Yup. Got it on file."

The way Barry doesn't seem that concerned about the money impresses Len. He doesn't race to his computer to run it through, too wrapped up in the smile lighting up his sister's face. Barry probably made around $300 plus for under two hours of work, but he seems more blissed out over the fact that Lisa is happy.

Maybe the money doesn't faze him anymore, but still, it's admirable.

"Oh, and here." Lisa reaches into her back pocket and pulls out another hundred - no wallet, no nothing. Just a hundred dollar bill sitting in her back pocket this whole time.

Welp. That's his baby sister.

"Thank you," Barry says, putting the bill in his pocket without looking at it. "Thank you very much."

"You deserve it," Lisa says. Len tries one more time to push her shirt on her, but even though her tattoo is completely covered, she refuses to put it on.

"You guys enjoy the rest of your day," Barry says, his eyes moving from Lisa's smile to Len's face. Len doesn't understand why, but he needs to look away.

"And you enjoy scarring people for life," he says, putting a protective hand on his sister's back and leading her towards the door.

"Hey, if _you_ ever want to be scarred for life, come back anytime," Barry says. "I stay open late. After hours by request."

"Not in this lifetime," Len retorts, urging Lisa out the door before she can open her mouth and say something incriminating, "but thanks anyway."

"No problem," Barry says. It doesn't sound like a comeback. It comes on the crest of a sigh that sounds slightly disappointed.

Or maybe Len is projecting.

Outside Barry's shop and in the open air, Len feels like he can finally breathe again, but it doesn't make him feel any more refreshed.

It doesn't make him feel better about leaving.

"I like him," Lisa says, walking side by side with her brother instead of leading him on a rampant chase. "He's sweet, funny, and hella handsome. I wonder if he's single."

"I thought you were still dating that Cisco kid studying tech down at the college," Len says, hoping a comment about their impending break up will follow.

"Not for me, doofus," she says, bumping his shoulder with her fist. "For _you_."

Len raises an eyebrow. "Whatever."

"Whatever yourself…but I think he kinda liked you."

"Not likely," Len snorts, but the urge to look back and see if Barry is watching them leave is overwhelming. Regardless, Len fights it off. "Look, kid" – he reaches out and gives her that pinch she's been earning steadily over the last two hours – "you stick to screwing up your own life, and let me deal with mine."


	2. Chapter 2

A few minutes past seven o'clock, Barry locks his front door and rolls the security gate down over his windows. He secures the metal gate with a heavy padlock, tugging it to test that it's fastened competently. He yawns, mouth open wide, not bothering to cover it. There's no one around, no one he'll offend by letting his manners slide. He raises his arms over his head and stretches his back, sighing with satisfaction when he feels one gunked up spot in particular crack, the pressure built around it releasing, setting him free to lengthen his spine without that pinching pain he couldn't seem to get rid of for the past three sessions. Barry had crammed more sessions than usual into this one day, and the long hours have piled on his shoulders, ready for him to carry them home. But he doesn't mind too much since they remind him of every tattoo he did that day.

And he was proud to put his mark on every single one – a tiny lightning bolt in a far corner, where most people wouldn't notice it unless they were really looking for it.

Despite the future that he had started cultivating while he was in high school, he loves his job. Before his accident, which he initially saw as a curse, he was on the fast track for a career in forensic science. The time he spent unconscious lost him his scholarship, his place at Harvard, a year of his life. But it unlocked within his brain this unfathomable skill, considering, as a child, he could barely draw a convincing stick figure. He loves to create, but more fulfilling than that, he loves having a talent that makes people happy.

That, in some cases, changes their lives.

Standing alone in the half-twilight, nothing around him but the occasional car passing behind him or couple walking by, he takes his phone out of his pocket to refresh his memory of one tattoo in particular.

But it's not the tattoo he's trying to recall, or the tattoo's owner.

It's the woman's brother, who Barry was able to photograph inconspicuously through his reflection in the mirror – his muscular physique, his severe expression, and his eyes, brilliantly blue and shrewd, that, even via photograph, send a chill down Barry's spine in a peculiarly alluring way.

Barry leans an arm against the gate while he stares at the photograph, enlarging the image to isolate just him, gazing at his sister with affection softening his hard-set jaw. Barry was there, he knows Len was looking at Lisa, but for a moment, Barry lets himself entertain the idea that Len might have been looking at him.

Barry is not too alarmed by the sound of footsteps heading his way. It's the voice he didn't think he'd hear again that gives him a jolt.

"I thought you said you stay open late?"

Barry's eyes dart left. He bites his lower lip when he sees Len coming.

"Hey, Captain Cold," Barry says, shoving his phone in his pocket so he doesn't get caught. This man, with his impossible to ignore swagger and air of intimidation permanently fixed on, might not appreciate knowing that Barry managed to snag his picture. If Barry had to guess this man's occupation, he might say that Len worked in intelligence, security, military… Who knows? He might be a Navy Seal. His sister implied that he had dealings with law enforcement. Heck, maybe he's a cop. Not with the CCPD. Barry's surrogate dad, Joe West, is on the force, so Barry would know. Still, it might be worth asking Joe the next time he stops by for dinner. "Yeah, well, I've got a huge client coming in tomorrow. Had to clear my schedule for him. He's got some _extreme_ security protocols apparently."

"Really?" Len says, finally reaching him. "Who's that?"

"Oliver Queen." Barry rests his back against the metal gate. "He and his sister are coming in from Star City."

Len's eyes pop open. "The _billionaire_ Oliver Queen?"

"Yeah" – Barry's shoulders jerk up in a faint shrug – "I guess."

"You don't know him?" Len asks, incredulous of the fact that a man as prominent as Oliver Queen doesn't register on Barry's radar. What does it take to impress this man?

"I mean, I've heard of him," Barry says, "but, you know, people are just people until I hear their stories, see their skin." Barry's eyes glance subconsciously up and down Len's body. "Speaking of which, I didn't think I'd see _you_ back so soon."

"Yeah" - Len shuffles his feet beneath him, somewhat nervous - "I wanted to say thank you for doing such a good job on Lisa's tattoo...and, uh, to apologize for being kind of a jerk. But she's my little sister, you know? It's my job to protect her."

"You definitely take that job seriously."

"I do."

"It's no biggie," Barry says. "I have a sort of sister myself. I know what it's like."

"Yeah," Len repeats, the perpetual beginning of a next sentence he can't seem to get out of his mouth. "But, uh, I was hoping that since you did such a good job on her tattoo, could you maybe, um…help…me?"

Barry raises a brow. " _You_ wanna get a tattoo? Have we suddenly switched to another Earth without my knowing?"

"Whadya mean?" Len asks, his default unamused expression snapping onto his face.

"If I remember correctly, you said, and I quote, _not in this lifetime_." Barry smiles, and Len can tell he's being teased. Len doesn't like being teased. Lisa does most of the teasing in his life, and she never seems to know when to stop. But it feels less like teasing when Barry does it, and more like flirting. Len's having a hard time remembering what that feels like…or how to do it.

"Maybe I was a little hasty with that remark."

Barry nods, visibly pleased.

"Well" - Barry pushes off the gate that's getting colder by the second and bringing that pinching pain back - "I only have the one appointment tomorrow, but he's not supposed to show till eleven. I can open up at nine…" Exhaustion hits Barry like an anvil in an old school cartoon at the thought of being awake any earlier than noon. "Or you can come in tomorrow evening, after hours. Around ten-ish?"

"I…might not be in town tomorrow." The toe of Len's boot becomes tremendously interesting as Len keeps his eyes glued to it. He doesn't want to see Barry's expression, doesn't want to know that the man couldn't care less one way or another. Len doesn't want to find out that he misjudged him. The silence after his statement draws on too long, and Len figures this is a bust, for more reasons than one. "You know what?" he decides, talking down to his shoes. "Never mind. This was a bad idea."

Len turns to go. He'd been contemplating this all afternoon, ever since he and Lisa left Barry's shop. Len had his reasons for wanting this, one among them seeing Barry again, but that wasn't the main reason.

But he'd gone this long without. He could go longer.

Barry's hand on Len's arm compels him in an understated way to stay.

"Don't leave," he says, letting go of Len's arm to fit his key back in the door. Barry doesn't know what he was thinking not jumping at this. Hadn't he been thinking about this man all afternoon? Didn't he spend hours hating himself for not asking for his number? Wasn't he juggling the moral implications of contacting Lisa with some bullshit reason for an excuse to ask about Len?

So what that Barry needs to get here at the ass-crack of dawn to clean for Oliver Queen's visit? There's no way he's going to let this second chance with Len slip through his fingers. And Barry's inner turmoil aside, the man seems to need him. Barry promised himself after his first cover up that he'd always be available for someone who needs his help, no matter what.

Tonight, Len is that person. Whether it's serendipitous or not takes a back seat to that.

"You know what?" Barry turns the key in the lock. "You just got lucky, Mr. Snart" – (and Barry calling Len _Mr. Snart_ is becoming his favorite thing out of Barry's mouth, with _Captain Cold_ coming in second) – "because if there was ever a night to get a tattoo, it's tonight."

"And why is that?" Len asks, smiling in opposition to his mood.

"Is there ever _not_ a night to get a tattoo?" Barry asks, the locked door jerking open with a _click_. "And besides, it seems that I'm free for the evening, so if we keep the gate down and the door locked, you can have me all to yourself."

 _Correction_ , Len thinks. _'You can have me all to yourself' just jettisoned into the number one slot._

Barry pulls open the door, standing back so Len can walk thru. Barry follows close after, locking the door behind him before anyone interested in a tattoo notices. Barry hates turning away customers. He doesn't have the heart.

"So, where do you want it?" Barry asks, crossing his arms and giving Len another once over, pinpointing the places that guys in particular pick for their first tattoo…and imagining how phenomenal ink would look on every single one. A tribal wrap on his bicep, or something geometric on his calf, with a watercolor overlay. Or a more massive piece - an entire sleeve, with Asian influences that aren't cliché, going from his shoulder to his hand. Barry has always been a sucker for hand tattoos, because he's always been a sucker for hands.

And Len has extraordinary hands.

"On my back," Len says. "There's something I want to cover up. Scars. They're old, and some of them are…pretty grotesque."

Barry nods, waiting for the reveal, but Len does nothing, says nothing else. Barry watches him, hands trembling as he fights with years of internalized pain and suffering, and an insecurity he doesn't wear where people can see.

"I'm gonna need you to take off your shirt," Barry says kindly. "I need to see what I'm covering."

"I…I know." Len reaches for the hem of his shirt, but his hands stop short of lifting it up, doubt clouding his face.

"I've done all sorts of cover ups," Barry says, attempting to put him at ease. Barry has had customers like this before. That's why he's willing to work after hours. That's when they end up at his door, when there's no one else to witness their shame. "I've seen all kinds of scars – burns, C-section, knife fights…abuse…" Len's eyes shift down and away when Barry says that, his jaw squaring off and becoming tight. "If it makes it easier, you're not the only one here with scars."

Barry doesn't hesitate to grab the hem of his own shirt and tug it up over his head, revealing arms and a torso covered in angry red forks that resemble lightning. They start in the center of his chest and spiral out to each wrist, dipping below the waist of his jeans, which means they go farther than Len can see. They have dimension to them, zig-zagging across Barry's tan skin, making it look paler in comparison. The individual branches, marking territory they've claimed as their own, seem like they'd be hot to the touch.

Len swallows hard staring at them. He'd like to run his fingertips over one and find out for himself.

"What…where did you get those?" Len asks, gesturing with a finger tracing the air.

"Oh…those?" Barry asks, as if he'd forgotten those scars were even there. "I was struck by lightning. But that's not the scar I'm talking about." He points to a jagged-edged raised area of skin above his heart. Because of the other scars, it's easy to miss. But if Barry didn't have those lightning marks, this one scar would look devastating. "This scar here." Barry traces over it, the slide of his single finger over his skin making Len's stomach clench. "I think it's from a knife." Barry strains to look down at it. "Anyway, I got this the night my mother died."

"You _think_ it's from a knife?"

"Yeah." Barry slips his shirt back on. "I don't know for sure. It's…well, it's a weird story. Sort of hard to believe. The doctor at the hospital told me that's most likely what it's from, considering the smooth cut. But I got that scar _long_ before I was struck by lightning. Because of it, I didn't like taking my shirt off at the pool, didn't like changing in the locker room at school. It got infected, didn't heal properly, so it's always been kind of ugly. But it's a constant reminder of that night, and I've always wished I could cover it. I've tried a couple of times."

"But you can't."

"Nope," Barry says, popping the _p_ and yanking down sharply on his shirt. "And then I went and got struck by lightning. Karma has not been kind to me aesthetically."

Len nods, even though he's dying to disagree.

"So, I showed you mine…" Barry approaches Len slowly, and Len finds himself captured in the depths of those eyes of his. _God_ , those eyes. There's magic in them, Len knows it. He's never felt someone's stare before the way he can feel Barry's. But even though this gaze smolders as hot as the rest, there's a tenderness to it - a request. He's asking Len to trust him. Barry gets within hand shake distance of Len and stops. "Can I see yours?"

Len's fingers curl into the shirt but his hands don't move, snared by indecision.

"Out of curiosity, what did Lisa tell you when she asked you to do that butterfly tattoo?" Len asks, his voice dropping above a whisper. "Did she tell you _why_ she wanted it?"

"She said she wanted it for luck," Barry tells him. "She said that her childhood was kind of a bummer, that her dad was a mean drunk. She said that she used to believe that butterfly was the answer to her prayers, that it could take her and her brother…I guess that's _you_ then…away to a better place. She left it kind of open to interpretation, but I got the gist."

"Yeah," Len says. It's less than he supposed, but it's enough. Barry is a smart man. Lisa might be impulsive, and immature at times, but she chose Barry for a reason. She probably knew that he'd get it. "Yeah, okay. Well, keep that in mind." Len takes hold of the edge of his shirt and lifts it up to his shoulders, facing his back to Barry while he does.

For his years of experience doing cover ups for victims of abuse, Barry has to bite down on his tongue to keep from saying what he's thinking.

 _Oh my God…_

Barry's never seen a body part as defiled as this. It isn't just that the scars on Len's back are excessive, they're personal…and they're brutal. Barry has seen scars similar to these, but not so many, and not all on one person. There are burns, cuts, what have to be belt marks, gorges made from something ragged - a broken bottle perhaps. But the worst of them are the words, carved deep into Len's skin so that they'd never heal – _bastard_ , _asshole_ , and from the knot of his spine down to the small of his back, _worthless_.

"Who?" Barry asks needlessly. "Why?"

"My dad" - Len coughs – "He was kind of an asshole."

"I can see that," Barry agrees. "I have a feeling you took some of these hits so your sister didn't have to." Len's shoulders slump an inch, and Barry shakes his head, sadness and anger welling up inside him, nearly causing his entire body to vibrate. "Please tell me he got what was coming to him," Barry begs through gritted teeth.

"He did," Len assures him. He hears Barry sigh with relief, but it doesn't loosen the vice around Len's heart. Killing his father didn't change any of it – it didn't erase the nightmares, didn't bring him any closure, didn't turn off the conditioning his dad beat into him like he was a dumb dog. Having this mélange of his father's abuse on his back meant that the filthy old alcoholic son-of-a-bitch won.

If Barry can fix it, Len will owe him more than the money he's going to pay him.

Barry peeks around Len's body, searching his face. "May I…touch you?" he asks. "I just…I need to see how thick some of your skin is."

"Uh…yeah, alright," Len answers. He subconsciously holds his breath, anxiously awaiting that first touch.

Barry runs his fingertips over Len's skin, and Len concentrates on not reacting. But Barry's touch is gentle, so deliberately cautious, that Len shuts his eyes to fully experience it, to memorize it. It's been a long time since anyone has touched his bare skin, especially his back. He doesn't go around in public without a shirt, he hasn't been to a beach in ages, and he takes his lovers from behind. He makes sure that no one sees. But this man is seeing, touching, and he doesn't seem repulsed. He's not pulling his hand away. He's tracing the lines of marks and scars down Len's shoulders, over his spine, to his hips, outlining words that Len prayed everyday would just go the fuck away.

And Jesus fucking _Christ_ , it feels good.

"Some of this scar tissue…" Barry pauses when he presses it, thinking about how many times these bruises were laid one over the other for them to be as dense as this. Some of it doesn't even feel like human skin. "I'm going to have to go over it several times. You might want to consider limiting the amount of color we use. They might not be as vibrant after it heals, certain areas will be duller than others, altering the effect. You may need to come back for touch ups. Normally I would recommend doing this in several sessions, but if you only have tonight…"

Barry waits for Len to agree or contradict, hoping he'll contradict.

Because then Barry might see him again.

"I've only got tonight," Len says.

"Oh" - Barry's head bobs in disappointed acknowledgement - "well, it's a hundred an hour, and this is going to take about twelve hours, maybe a little more…" Barry sighs. He didn't realize how tired he was until he said the words _twelve hours_. "I get a $500 retainer fee upfront, but that'll be applied toward the overall cost of the tattoo."

"Do you take cash?" Len asks, tossing his shirt onto a nearby chair and reaching for his wallet.

"Do weasels fuck in the dark?" Barry barks with a clumsy laugh at the notion of someone walking around at night carrying $1200 plus in cash in their wallet. He's seen other people do it, so he knows it's not only Len, but it floors him every time. Len looks at him blankly, and Barry raises an eyebrow. "You know, I don't actually know the answer to that question. But yes, I take cash." Len opens his wallet, counts out five individual hundred dollar bills, and hands them over.

"Thank goodness the Starbucks down the block delivers twenty-four/seven," Barry comments, folding the money and shoving it in his pocket, "because we're in for a _long_ night." Barry doesn't mention that he's so tired he feels like he's going to start bleeding out his eyeballs, because he can't deny the fact that he doesn't mind spending twelve hours alone with Len. "Did you have any idea what you might like to get? Like, were you thinking a collage, or one single image? Did you have a theme in mind? A piece of art you like?"

"I…uh…I didn't think I would get this far, to tell you the truth," Len admits. "And, I really hadn't thought about it before right now."

"Usually, I'd advise against that."

"I figured as much," Len says, "but…"

"I know," Barry says. "I understand." Barry puts a finger to his chin and taps pensively. "If you don't mind my saying, your sister made a lot of jokes about you being…cold." Barry winces. When Lisa said it, it sounded like a pet name. When Barry says it, it sounds like an insult. "Is that a thing with the two of you, or…"

Len laughs. "You can kind of say it's an inside joke."

"She also mentioned you hardly being home?"

Len's eyebrows shoot up. How did Barry hear that? He wasn't even on the shop floor when Lisa said it.

"I've spent some time behind bars," Len says defensively. "I won't lie."

Len waits for the judgmental sneer or the wide eyes, shining with fear, but Barry's thoughtful expression doesn't change.

"You know," Barry says, moving on in the conversation as easily as if Len said he sold ice-cream for a living, "I've been toying with something that I'm pretty proud of, but I've never found anyone that fit it. If I make a few tweaks, it might be right up your alley. Give me one second."

"O- _kay_ …" Len's not sure if he should be impressed by Barry's under-reaction or wary of it. Barry might be running off right now to call the police. He did say his family has a history with law enforcement. He probably has them on speed dial. And Len let himself get locked in to this place. Idiot! As far as he can tell, the front door is the only way in and out, but there's an alley out back. There has to be another door…

Before the thought finishes passing through his head, Barry returns with a book-size tablet, swiping through images with his finger until he finds one, then sits and starts working with a stylus. He makes some quick marks, a couple of slashes, and a few other things Len doesn't catch because Barry works so damn fast. His hand literally blurs. It reminds Len of the shimmer he saw when Barry signed his name on the back of his hand and the tattoo ink bled away.

"Here." Barry turns in his chair so Len can see over his shoulder. "What do you think? I'm hoping you won't think it's overused. You seem to have such a protective streak, you know, about your sister, this was the first thing that came to mind. But if this isn't the direction you want to go, I literally have hundreds of other samples. Or I could draw you something fresh, quick and easy."

 _I bet_ , Len thinks, considering how fast he changed up this one. When Barry sat down, it was a colorless sketch; now it's a complete work of art.

Len examines the picture on the screen. It looks like a combination of free-hand drawing and Photoshop painting. It's a dragon, but it looks mechanical, industrial, made entirely of steel in a gunmetal shade, and covered in crystal…no, covered in ice, a thin sheen of it, icicles dripping off its body, the tips sharp as daggers; wings, slightly bent, a little damaged, spreading out, breaking through a single heavy chain; its head tilted up in the direction of the sky, looking forward to a taste of freedom.

Len never thought he'd ever want anything on his skin after those scars. Even when he showed up at Barry's place, he was sure he was going to hate every idea Barry had. Getting a tattoo to cover up his marks is a means to an end. A way to keep from having to fight off every thug he meets in prison from now on who'll think he's someone's bitch. A way to avoid his sister's non-stop teasing, which comes from a place of caring because she knows something's there, even though Len refuses to show her.

But this, this masterpiece that Barry came up with…Len wants it so badly.

"It's perfect," Len says.

"You're not just saying that?"

"No," Len says. "No, it's…it's amazing."

"Is there anything you want different?" Barry asks. "Change the color, add a layer, take something away? Maybe the position of the head? The expression?"

But Len shakes his head through Barry's entire question.

"No," he says. "I wouldn't change a thing." Len watches as Barry enlarges the image, noticing in an area he had seen Barry working, words scripted along the line of the dragon's wing. "I saw you write that just now. What does it say?"

"It's Latin," Barry says with a sheepish grin. "It translates to _Reign supreme in hell the knight who has been denied his chance to serve in heaven_."

Len side-eyes Barry, a sly smirk replacing his previously insecure grin. "Are you coming on to me, Mr. Allen?"

Barry winks. "I might just be."

Barry directs Len toward the bench that he usually puts his customers on for doing back work, but after a thought, he rewinds a bit. Len would be lying on his stomach. He might feel vulnerable in that position.

"You know, since the place is empty, I'm gonna let you pick how you want to sit," Barry says. "Most people who have a full back piece done lie down, but I've got this seat over here…" Barry points to a leather chair in front of a full-length mirror that resembles something a person would sit on at the gym to do bicep curls. "That way you can sit upright and lean over the headrest."

Len looks at his two options, then makes a motion toward the chair.

"I think I prefer this one, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Barry says, grabbing the chair and pulling it over to his station. "Plant your ass and straddle it while I get my stool."

Len grins at the mention of his ass. "Don't you need to print that up on transfer paper or something? Or do you do all your work freehand?"

"Ah, so somebody's been watching _Ink Master_ ," Barry kids, sitting down on his stool behind Len. Len can see Barry in the reflection of that full length mirror, and keeps his eyes trained on him. "Most artists do that, especially for intricate pieces. The other artists who work here do." Barry starts going over Len's back lightly with a pink disposable razor, like the one he used on Lisa, but not too much before he pitches it. Barry slips on a pair of disposable gloves, then he grabs his gun and inspects it. He turns a screw, slaps on fresh needles, checks his wires, makes a few other adjustments. It's hypnotic to watch Barry's attention to detail, how he maintains his tools with such care. It's a trait that Len can respect. Barry dips his needles in a cup of greyish ink, and switches on his gun. "But nope," Barry says, picking up the conversation where it left off. "I do all my work freehand."

"Oh," Len says, flinching on reflex when he hears the gun fire up, "so you're just that good, huh?"

"I'm just that good," Barry echoes, giving Len a flirty wink through the mirror. "Once I get something under my fingers, I never forget it."

That comment, and the way Barry says it - his mouth close to Len's skin, breath tumbling down his back - makes Len's entire body throb before the needles even touch him. But Barry sees Len shift in his seat, and mistakes it for him being tense.

"You know, some people find having their back worked on relaxing," Barry tells him. "So, if you knock out or something, I'll understand. And don't worry…" Barry puts a hand on Len's shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze, "you'll be safe with me."

Len doesn't feel safe alone with most people, but as the tattoo gun hits his shoulder, the low hum of it beside his ear, the _thrum-thrum-thrumming_ needles beating against a sensation-dead patch of skin, he begins to relax, his mind slipping away. The rhythm of the gun on his back has a cathartic effect, and Barry's presence behind him is soothing. As premature as it seems since he's only known him a day - _barely_ that - Len can see himself adding Barry Allen to that short list of people.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Warning for anxiety, a panic attack, and more details of Len's father's abuse.**

For the first hour, Len sits motionless, breathing meditatively in through his nose and out through his mouth, ignoring with Sisyphusian determination the needles driving in to his skin in an unpredictable, _tip-toing-through-land-mines_ sort of way. It's a Russian Roulette of pain, and this coming from someone who has actually played Russian Roulette. If memory serves, it was less stressful than this. On some areas of skin that Barry tattoos, Len can't feel a thing. There's pressure, impact, but no perception of sensation, though if Len had to guess, he'd say Barry is digging holes in his body. But then Barry moves to the left or the right a fraction of a centimeter, and pain shoots straight through Len's skin, jumping nerves, barreling across synapses, slingshotting around his chakras and into his skull. If he closes his eyes, he can actually track its progress, like a bolt streaking through him, leaving behind an evanescing trail of fire. But he doesn't let on.

He schools his breathing, and forces his muscles to go lax. He employs the methods he had to use when his father beat him to show no visible sign of discomfort, even when the pain comes on so sudden and feels so unrelenting, it almost triggers a panic attack.

Jesus Christ, he hasn't had one of those in years.

But just when he's about to tell Barry to stop, to let up for a second so he can breathe, or turn off the gun altogether because he's done, he can't take it anymore, there's his voice, _Barry's_ voice - talking to him, soothing him, encouraging him, cluing him in on his progress, or even humming a cheerful tune. Barry doesn't launch into a full-scale discussion the way he did with Lisa, but he interjects here and there with tidbits and anecdotes, especially when Len starts to tense up. Len chalks up the lack of conversation to Barry being tired until he glances in the mirror and notices the acute concentration on Barry's face, his eyes not straying from his task, not for a second. He's focused on this tattoo, on Len's back, on covering up those marks and making this dragon flawless, to a far greater extent than he did with Lisa's Golden Glider.

Barry dips his needles in a glass of water, cleaning away the ink, then switches off his gun.

"Now, I'm going to put my hand on the back of your neck," Barry says, "to stretch out the skin up top. It's going to feel like I'm holding you down, but I swear I'm not. If you need me to let go, you just say the words _let go_ , and my hand's gone. Understand?"

"Yeah," Len says. "I understand."

Barry is being overly cautious, Len thinks, but he reminds himself that Barry has done this before, with lots of people, each with a unique experience, exposed to varying degrees of abuse. Barry probably knows that he can't be too cautious.

Barry is an expert. A professional. That's why Len is there; why he agreed to this.

Well, that's _one_ reason.

"Take a deep breath," Barry recommends. "I'll try not to hold on for long."

"Alright," Len says gruffly, between an exhalation and a cough.

Barry puts his hand to Len's neck and presses firmly.

"Gun's going back on," Barry says. This is the first time Barry has warned Len that he's turning on his tattoo gun. Since Barry started working on Len's back, that gun has bounced back and forth between on and off like a frightened rattlesnake shaking its tail. It hasn't really bothered Len. With his hand locked on the back of Len's neck, Barry switches on his gun. It comes alive with a _snap_ , and right away, Len understands why the extra measures, why the precaution.

It starts with that _snap_ , like a toggle activating. It's not a full-fledged flashback. Len has had those; he knows how they feel. But the combination of the hand pressing on his neck, the sound of the buzzing gun, and the needles boring into his skin definitely conjures a memory.

It happened when Len was thirteen. He'd gone on a job with his dad – a _big_ one – and Len flubbed it. It wasn't his fault. The information his dad had gotten from an associate was incorrect. The alarm system they'd thought the building had turned out to be an upgrade, replaced nearly three months prior. This guy that his dad mistakenly trusted turned out to be a lazy do-nothing who didn't bother to double-check his intel, and because of it, Len tripped the panic alarm. They got away clean, but just barely, and without their payload.

It wasn't Len's fault. There was no way he could have known. But he paid the price.

"Good for nothing!" his dad had called him when they walked through the front door, kicking him so hard in the back to get him inside that Len thought the man had broken his spine. "Stupid fucking lowlife!" Lewis Snart spat the words at his son, punctuated them with fist after fist to his face, but they weren't meant for him. They were meant for the man who screwed him over. In reality, Lewis was more pissed at _himself_ for trusting that man than he was at his son. Laying into the boy was a way to blow off steam, to get some resolution, but it was also a reminder to himself of how much of an idiot he had been.

Lewis had knocked Len to the ground so many times, it was inconceivable that he had the fortitude to stand, but he did. He defied the odds and rose to his feet, eager to get out of the path of his father's rage, and to make sure that Lisa wouldn't be next. But Lewis Snart had other plans – a way to make certain neither one of them ever forgot the importance of vigilance.

"If you can't do your part," Lewis growled, grabbing his son by the scruff of the neck and forcing him to the floor, "if you can't do the job…" With his free hand, he pulled his switchblade from his pocket. It flicked open with a _snap_. The razor-sharp tip brushed Len's skin as Lewis sliced the turtleneck off his son's torso with several ragged swipes. "Then you're _worthless_ to me."

Len assumed his father was going to hide him. A hiding - _that_ Len was used to. He'd had more than his share. He knew what to expect - his father's rhythm, the heft of his arm, the limits of his stamina. Len held his breath, waiting for the first strike so he could count them off in his head. He kept a running tally of the amount of hits he'd receive, taking into account his dad's anger, his level of exhaustion, his sobriety. For Len, it had become a science. Being able to rationally cope with the beatings was the only way Len had of surviving in the Snart household, to find the strength to wake up every morning, knowing what the day ahead might hold for him.

He couldn't give up. He had to keep going…for Lisa.

The end of his father's switchblade cutting into Len's skin between his shoulder blades was the only warning he had that the game he'd been diligently learning was about to change.

It took close to ten minutes for Lewis to get the whole word engraved along Len's spine. At one point, he had to plant a knee on his son's ass and put a good portion of his weight on him to keep him in one place. Not a single threat out of Lewis's mouth was powerful enough to keep Len still. A couple smacks to the back of the head with an empty beer bottle helped stun him, but the effect wore off when the knife pierced his skin again. At the very least, Len's struggling tired his old man out. When Lewis was finished, he left his son bleeding on the living room floor, and tromped off to bed with a six-pack of Coors.

He fell asleep after his third beer, and left Lisa alone.

"Okay, okay" - Barry takes his hand and the gun away, switching it off and setting it aside - "It's alright, Len. It's alright. That part's done. You can go ahead and relax. I'm not gonna touch you again until you say it's okay."

Len can't understand why Barry sounds agitated. But then Len's mind returns from the past, and the feeling comes back to his body. He's cold all over – his palms, his arms, his chest, his legs covered in a thin layer of sweat. And somewhere along the way, Len had started shuddering. Eyelids batting quickly, evacuating the residue of that day-mare from his brain, Len looks into the mirror and sees a face behind him – not the cruel, twisted face of his embittered father, but Barry's face, caring, considerate; his expressive eyes broadcasting his emotions; and his hands, raised where Len can see them.

Holding them up so Len can feel safe.

Barry locks eyes on Len's through the reflection. "Let me know when you want me to continue. I won't touch you before then."

It would be so easy for Len to get offended at Barry treating him this way, with kid gloves, like he's weak. Len doesn't accept pity from anyone, not the members of his team, not even Lisa. But he can see in Barry's eyes, Barry doesn't pity him. After suffering the heinous abuse of his father, after spending years trying to forget something that won't be forgotten, it's nice to have one person finally see him this way, and not think he's pathetic.

Len nods. "I'm fine," he says.

"Are you sure?" Barry asks. Len notices Barry's hand jerk, like he wants so much to touch him again, to give him comfort.

Len wants that, too.

"I'm alright," he says. "I promise. Please, keep going."

"Alright," Barry says, reaching for his gun. He dips the needles in a glass of water and turns the gun on, clearing the grey ink, rinsing away the bad karma from before and coming back with something new, something good. He dunks the needles in a cup of a darker color. "I'm gonna start near the same spot, but I'm not going to hold you down, alright? But if you need me to stop, just tell me to stop."

"Shouldn't we have a safeword?" Len asks, winking at Barry to lighten the mood.

Barry's easy, mildly flirtatious smile settling back on his lips is all Len needs, for the time being, to bring him to his comfort zone – this bubble that Barry has created for him.

"Sure," Barry says, returning to the same spot, the effect of the needles pressing into Len's skin altered this time. "How about _icicle_?"

Len smirks. "How about _smart-ass_?"

"How about _great ass_?" Barry suggests.

This time, Len snorts, and Barry turns his head to laugh.

"How about _butterfly_?" Barry offers in exchange.

"Hmm" - Len smiles – " _butterfly_. I think that might be perfect."

" _Butterfly_ it is," Barry says, and goes to work.

If Len had been lying on his stomach, the way Barry had originally intended, this attack, which is what it was, could have been a lot worse. Len doesn't like people seeing him that way. Falling prey to a physically stronger foe, Len can handle. There are very few fights he can't think his way out of. Becoming a victim to the monster inside his own mind he's still trying to deal with. It rarely announces itself, and it doesn't come at him the same way twice. Len usually has to lock himself up, or pound his fist into something to make it go away.

Len appreciates Barry's segue into light flirting and mindless banter. It's unexpectedly effective at taking Len's mind off it. But the thing that gets Len over the bump is the fact that Barry knows - he gets it completely. He doesn't ask Len for an explanation, though it's obvious that the invitation's open. Barry starts talking about some indie band from Jersey he saw playing at the convention center last month that he thinks Lisa might groove on, and soon, the fragile threads of trauma clasping to Len's psyche fray and fizzle.

As the hours tick on, flashbacks like that first one hit and dissipate, hit and dissipate, like storm winds beating against a sturdy oak tree, one whose roots run deep. One that refuses to bend. Len's anxiety becomes less and less, until the memories that rise up to submerge him calm to a lull. With Barry there, giving him constant reassurance, and an anchor to hold on to, Len bobs above the tide, and that minefield he's been tip-toing around becomes little more than an empty battleground, dry and barren, with a few catastrophic memories wedged in here and there, but nothing that can really destroy him.

"So," Barry says as he continues down Len's back, "I know it's been kind of quiet. Anything you wanna talk about? Or are you fine contemplating life?"

Barry is giving Len an opening to talk about his problems, in case he needs prompting, but Len doesn't take it. Selfishly, there's something about Barry that he wants to know.

"I…do have a question," Len says, shifting in his seat. Aside from one bathroom break (after Barry ordered them coffee and donuts), he hasn't moved in about seven hours, and an avalanche of pins and needles floods his legs and butt because of it. "But it's kind of personal. I don't feel right asking."

"Go ahead," Barry says, wiping over a spot on Len's spine, not letting on that he's working meticulously at obliterating the word _worthless_ from his back. But it's not the heartbreak of the word itself that Barry is attempting to disregard, or the gruesome thoughts of how that word got there, but Barry's growing impulse to press his lips to the remaining letters, the idea that he missed out on an opportunity to kiss the hate away before he got the honor of covering it up. "I'm pretty much an open book. Besides, it seems only fair."

"You don't have to answer," Len preempts, "if it's too personal, or you just don't want to. I mean, you don't know me from Adam, so I'll understand."

"Gotcha," Barry says. "Go ahead. Shoot."

"That scar…over your heart…how did you get it?" Len peeks over his shoulder. "How did your mother die?"

 _Click_. The needles on the tattoo gun go silent. Barry wipes Len's spine, down the dragon's sternum, with an ink saturated paper towel.

"Asking how my mother died is kind of a second date revelation, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose it is," Len says, baffled at himself for even asking. Why did he want to know? Why was it so important to him?

"If you really want to know…"

"I'm not a small talk kind of man, Barry," Len puts in, the words harsh but sincere. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't wanna know."

Barry dunks his needles and fires up his tattoo gun again.

"Alright," he says, starting on a section that needs shading. "My mom, uh…was murdered…when I was a kid."

"Oh, wow," Len says. "That's awful, man. I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Barry says. "She was stabbed, but I think that the person who killed her might have tried to come after me first. That's how I got the scar. I think he stabbed me but…" Barry shakes his head. Len sees the movement in the mirror, through the reflection of Barry he's barely taken his eyes off of since his tattoo began. "I don't know. I never saw my mom's killer."

"How's that possible?"

"I…" Barry shuts off his gun and leans back in his stool. "I don't know."

"I'm sorry," Len says. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"It's not that." Barry leans forward, regarding Len's tattoo closely to keep from meeting the man's eyes. "I mean, yeah, it is. Who likes to talk about their mom getting killed? It's just…I've told a lot of people about that night, and no one believes me. They say that I was young, traumatized, that I didn't really see what I saw, but…if I close my eyes, I can see it like it was yesterday. I can hear the glass shattering, I can hear my mother scream. I can feel the wind on my face, the heat from the…from the…"

"Hey" - Len reaches back to put a hand on Barry's knee - "you're right. We can wait for our second date."

Barry grins to convey his thanks, but it looks more like relief.

"Or your second tattoo," Barry says, touching up the dragon that's gone from drawing to life on Len's back. "Most people can't stop with one."

Len doesn't know about that. He was done with sitting in the chair, needles _shing-shing-shinging_ into his skin, hours ago. His back, which hasn't felt so much as a pinch in a long while, is a mess of raw nerves, itching, burning, the constant monotonous digging of the tines into him, whether they stung or not, driving him to the point where peeling off his fingernails one by one might actually be preferable.

But for this intimate time spent with Barry, talking to him, feeling his gentle touch on his skin – _particularly_ for his touch – Len would endure it again. He checks the time on the clock on the wall. He notes the minutes creeping towards sunrise, and does the math in his head, counting down his twelve hours. He wishes it would stop, rewind, that Barry would say, "You know, this area didn't take. I'm going to have to do it again. Sorry, but you'll be here another hour."

Or, Len could man up and ask Barry out to breakfast.

He can't. He knows he can't. He can't get involved with Barry Allen. His life won't permit it. Half of him is pissed for things turning out that way, painting him into the kind of corner where he can't have something like this, something that's good for him. Another part of him is pissed at Lisa for dragging him here to get her God dammed tattoo, for putting him into a position to question everything he's doing and everything he's about, not when he finally came to terms with spending the rest of his life as the villain in his own story, and not the hero.

He hears Barry sigh behind him, an undeniable heaviness seeping into Len's body through that one breath.

"Len," Barry says, working on an outline that is both numb and agonizing at alternate intervals, "I'm about to make some assumptions here. I'm hoping you'll be honest and tell me if I'm wrong."

"Of course," Len says. "What's up?"

"You seem like an intelligent man. The kind of man who doesn't jump to conclusions. The kind of man that, when you feel comfortable around someone, you're willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Am I right?"

Len catches Barry's eyes in the mirror. "I'd like to believe I'm those things," he says. "I try to be."

"And…" Barry rakes his top teeth over his lower lip, "are you comfortable around me?"

Len looks at Barry over his shoulder, not through the reflection of the mirror, so he can see Barry's face.

"I am," he answers.

Barry gazes into Len's eyes – his clear, open, honest eyes – and nods.

"Alright then." It takes Barry finishing up the outline before he begins, and Len waits, turning away to give Barry space. "When I was younger, I…" Barry stops, switches off his gun, blows out a breath. He turns to his tray of inks, picks up more color, then goes back to Len's tattoo. "My mom had finished tucking me in and kissing me goodnight," Barry says, feeling adolescent for starting there. "It had been a horrible day. I wasn't exactly a popular kid. I was being bullied at school, and, well, let's just say it was beyond awful." Barry shuts off his gun, picks up some color, goes back to work. "But my mom, she always had this way of saying the right thing, you know? I mean, she had the whole mom thing down pat."

"Yeah," Len says with a wistful smile, memories of his own mom scrolling through his head. "I know what you mean." God, Len misses her. That's something he and Barry have in common, but that Len has yet to mention. Because of all the memories in his brain, fighting every day to chip away at his sanity, his memories of his mom are the ones that he battles hardest against surfacing; the ones that, under no circumstances, does he allow himself to dwell on. If he lets himself indulge in even one memory of his mother, it wouldn't simply tear him to pieces. Pieces can be put back together. It would raze him, demolish him, turn him into ash. Len holds his arms tight, waiting for another panic attack, but, surprisingly, it doesn't come, and that is due, Len knows, in no small part, to Barry. "Some people were born to be parents, and others…they weren't even meant to breed."

"I'm sorry," Barry says, wiping down Len's back but slower. "I shouldn't be…"

"What happened next?" Len asks. He doesn't need an apology; he needs a diversion.

"She went downstairs with my dad," Barry says, the tattoo gun returning to Len's left flank. "They were hanging out in the living room, having a glass of wine and catching up, the way they did every evening. I don't know how long before it happened."

"It?"

Len watches through the mirror as Barry goes over a line, and then goes over it again, then starts filling it in with the same color, completing these tasks methodically.

"I heard a crash," Barry says in a tight voice. "The windows in the living room shattering, like someone threw a boulder through them." Barry shuts off his gun, returns to his inks. He checks the levels in the cups, tops a couple off, and Len wonders if he really needs more, of if he needs a moment. He cleans his needles, dabs them in a cup. "I came downstairs" – Barry's gun switches on - "and I saw these two…streams of electricity, like lightning, swirling around the living room, twisting together and pulling apart, forming a vortex, with my mother stuck in the middle. She was…she was calling my name, telling me to go. My father grabbed me…he told me to run. I saw him fly back, I felt something sharp stick me in the chest and then, boom."

"Boom?" Len can only imagine what happened – the house exploding, his mother blown to pieces, his father...Barry hadn't mentioned what happened to his father.

"All of a sudden, I was standing in the middle of the street, six blocks away," Barry says. "I have no idea how I got there, but there I was. It took a split second. By the time I made it back to my house, my mother was…" Barry's story loses momentum, and Len hears him gulp over the whirring of the gun. "She was gone. She'd been stabbed. And the police arrested my dad for her murder. I tried to tell them what happened, what I saw, but no one believed me. Not my best friend, or her father - the man who took me in. They've known me all my life, but they can't find it in themselves to believe me."

Len hears the frustration in his voice. It's the same frustration Len has felt so many times, trying to find a balance between living with his dad, protecting his sister, making sure she had something close to a normal life, while also being a fucking criminal…hoping to find a way out of that life. Until he began to realize that he enjoyed the rush too much to give it up. The adrenaline involved in pulling a heist, taking what he wants and getting away clean – he needed it, and not just to put food on the table.

He needed it to feel alive.

He was stuck, sentenced to the thing he had once promised never to become, not even in the tiniest measure.

A thief. A killer.

His father.

"So, I decided that I was going to figure it out for myself," Barry continues. "I studied forensics. I was good at it, good at solving problems, making clues fit, seeing things in a way other people didn't right away. I'd even volunteered on a couple of cases with the CCPD. I was primed and ready to join the force."

"Why didn't you?" Len asks, so drawn in by Barry's story, he's not even aware that another whole hour has flown by, and Barry's tattoo gun, which had started underneath his ribcage, is drawing lines around his hips.

"I got hit by lightning. It knocked me unconscious, and I ended up in a coma. Between being in the coma and then readjusting afterwards, I lost a year of my life. The doctors who took care of me told me that that whole time they believed I was on the brink of death. I was seizing, having heart attacks daily, and they didn't think I would make it. After I heard that, I realized that I couldn't spend my whole life wrapped up in the mystery of what happened to my mom. I had to do something else, something that brought hope to the world, not focus on my own personal vendetta. I mean, no one believed me years ago, they probably won't believe me tomorrow."

"But…what about your dad?"

"I'll find a way to get my dad out of Iron Heights one day," Barry says, "but being on the force…I don't think that's the way. Plus, when I woke up, I discovered something about myself. I had something I didn't have before, something I didn't want to go to waste."

Len raises a brow at Barry in the mirror. "What was that?"

"This" – Barry motions around the studio to the pictures on the walls, photos of the tattoos Barry had done, but also others that Len had noticed earlier on - black and white sketches, pastel drawings, miniature watercolor paintings. Len thought they might be lithographs or prints of famous works, but they shared a similar style. They felt connected. Len had suspected they were Barry Allen originals, but now he knew. "I could draw, which I never could before. And not only could I draw, I couldn't seem to _stop_ drawing. It's not only a talent, it's a compulsion. Sometimes, it wakes me up at night, and I need to grab my sketchbook and…you know…have at it. Got to the point I keep one under my pillow."

"Have you done anything larger than these?" Len asks, sweeping his eyes around at the pictures, all of which are about the same size.

"I do have several canvases, but for the moment, they're only hanging in my loft. They're…a little too personal to show to anyone yet." Barry catches Len's eye and shrugs. "But who knows? Maybe it's about time I showed them off, hmm?"

Len detects the hint, and as much as he wants to, as much as he'd love to say, "Let's hit your loft after this and you can give me a private showing," he has to let it slide.

"You're right," Len says, conceding to the previous point. "That sounds…unreal."

"Yup," Barry agrees with unconcealed chagrin. "That's what I've been told my entire life since that night. It's alright if you don't believe me." Barry laughs wryly. "I don't think _I'd_ believe me if I hadn't been there."

"I didn't say that I didn't believe you," Len corrects him. "Yeah, it's hard to believe, but I have no reason _not_ to believe you."

Barry's smile becomes thin, doesn't touch his eyes. "Thanks, but, you don't have to say that."

"Barry, I don't pull people's legs. You seem like an honest guy. Now, I wasn't there, but if you say you saw those things, I'm gonna believe you saw those things, even if I can't explain it."

Barry switches off his gun. He tosses out his old paper towel and grabs a fresh one. He takes his time wiping down a spot, examining it carefully, while a subtle blush colors his cheeks.

"Thank you," Barry says. "Thank you for saying that."

"You're welcome."

While the tattoo gun hums, Len visualizes the events of that night as Barry recounted it – two streaks of lightning fighting neck and neck (so to speak) over a little boy and his mother…but why? He thinks about asking Barry if he has any theories, but decides not to, figuring he's pried plenty for one evening. He rests his chin on his arms and lets Barry get back to his work.

Morning sunlight begins to seep underneath the gate covering the window of the shop, stretching across the floor toward them, when Barry removes his gun from Len's skin for the last time.

"There," he says, giving Len's back a final wipe. "You're done."

"Already?" Len watches with dismay as Barry puts his gun down. Twelve hours sounded like forever when Barry first said it, but now, Len glances up at the clock, wondering where did the time go?

Barry rubs his arm across his forehead, wiping his brow. His eyes, so full of spirit and energy, are red-rimmed from concentrating for such a long stretch without sleep; his eyelids so heavy, he looks like he might decide to crash on the floor, or on one of the couches in the waiting area. He stands from his stool and slowly bends backward, his spine snapping a few times, kinks that spent hours working their way into his muscles as he sat hunched over popping when he stands to his full height.

Len wants to spring out of his chair and get a look at the finished artwork covering his back, to find out if that imposing dragon accomplished what Len hopes it did, but he steals a moment to watch Barry unfurl, reaching out his arms like a flower toward the sun. His shirt pulls up over his abs, exposing not only his smooth skin, but those hidden, bifurcating scars, and Len can't help but think how tragically beautiful they are, knowing what they represent.

After another back crack and a long, drawn out yawn, Barry sees Len staring, his eyes fixed on the mirror, as if he's confused about what he should do next.

"Hey, big guy," Barry says. "You stuck? Do you need a hand up?"

"Uh…no." Len unfolds his arms, swinging his numb legs back and forth, preparing to stand. "I've got it."

"Good" - Barry walks across the shop to retrieve another full-length mirror - "because I really want you to get a look at your back. I think that dragon's probably one of the best tattoos I've done in a while."

"Well, then" - Len pushes himself to his feet, walking to the mirror in front of him while Barry moves the second mirror behind - "I absolutely have to see this…"

Barry sets the mirror down, angling it so Len can get the best view, but he's already caught sight of it and gone quiet. Len's eyes graze over the dragon taking up the majority of his back, the image bleeding around his sides in some parts. Len walks toward the mirror slowly, twisting to get a better look, and Barry repositions the second mirror, sliding it closer. Len can't see any marks, not a single scar. No burns, no belt lashes, and those words - those disgusting words – have been replaced by this powerful creature, bursting out of its chains, spreading its wings, ready to soar into the sky.

Like Lisa's butterfly, taking flight, carrying her away from the pain of her past, and towards a better and brighter future.

Could Len have that kind of future?

Len's eyes find Barry's, peering at him through the mirror.

Could this dragon be the first step towards getting there?

"It's…it's remarkable," Len says, throat dry. He traces the reflection of his tattoo on the surface of the glass. "My sister was right. You really do incredible work."

"Well, you're a pretty incredible canvas," Barry says, staring down at his Converse sneakers and grinning ear to ear.

Len turns away from the mirror. It's harder than he would have ever imagined, not looking at himself. Of course, it's not himself he's looking at, but this fantastic work of art.

Something he has because of Barry Allen. Something that will change his life.

"Thank you for this," Len says, shoving a hand in his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He counts out a grip of hundreds and hands them over. "For staying open late and for…" Len's lips pull taut, caging his emotions over what Barry has done for him. Len isn't used to expressing them verbally, and he doesn't feel like making a fool out of himself, so he relays his gratitude the only way he knows how. "There's…uh…an extra couple hundred in there for your trouble."

"That's very generous," Barry says, folding the bills in half and putting them in his pocket, having the grace not to count them.

"Yeah, well" – Len peeks back over his shoulder – "it's nowhere near enough."

Barry pulls out his phone and takes a picture. Then another. And another. The first two are of Len's tattoo, but the three or four that follow are of him, his face, looking back at Barry through the mirror, so that this time, when Barry looks at them, he doesn't have to pretend.

"In that case, you could always stop by every once in a while when you're back in town," Barry suggests. "Shirtless, so I can visit with it. And, you did mention a second date, so, technically, we'd have to go out on a first one."

Len's gaze shifts to his feet, his lips tugging up in a smile. "I'd like that."

Barry takes another quick picture of Len like this, bashful smile climbing up his cheeks, head slightly bowed, looking humble but proud…and breathtakingly handsome.

Len hears Barry's camera click and his eyes flick up. He points at Barry's phone, a mask of worry coming up like a protective barricade.

"Are you gonna put those up on your wall here?"

"Not a chance," Barry says, putting his phone back in his pocket. "Not on the walls, not on the website. I don't want anyone else thinking they can have this tattoo. It's one of a kind. Always will be."

Len smiles, having a hunch Barry is referring to more than the tattoo. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

A sudden flare of light grabs Barry's attention, and he looks toward the window. Paper thin God rays are lighting his shop, bleeding through the cracks between the metal gate and the window, unwilling to be kept out any longer. It's a new day. Their twelve hours together are up. Len's tattoo is done. They're going to have to say goodbye, and Barry has no idea if he's ever going to see him again. He sighs. He had recently gotten to the point where he was fine being alone. The woman he'd loved for most of his life had found happiness with another guy – a _good_ guy, so Barry couldn't really hate him (even though he tried). A couple of other partners, two bordering on the somewhat serious, didn't pan out, but he didn't let that break him. But here he was falling fast for someone else he couldn't have. What the frick, universe? Why now? Had he spent a past life kicking puppies and swindling orphans? What did he do to deserve this?

"Since I don't have your email address," Barry says, clinging to the professional in him since that's all he has to lean on, "you can go to my website for the whole aftercare spiel. But in general, keep it covered for the next three to four hours, wear loose cotton clothes, keep it clean, and give it plenty of time to heal." Barry grabs a tube of ointment from his work station. "I recommend using a thin layer of Aquaphor to help your tattoo heal faster." He squeezes a dollop on to his fingertips and spreads it over Len's back. Len breathes in through his nose and holds it, tamping down the stirrings in his stomach that Barry's touch evokes, the drifting of his body toward it when what he really needs to do is ignore it. "The website…also has my email address and my cell phone number on it," Barry adds nonchalantly. "You can contact me anytime if you need a touch up, or you want to do another one…or, for any reason really."

"That's good to know," Len says. He doesn't watch Barry through the mirror as Barry bandages his back. He's clearing his head, thinking through the next steps he needs to take in order to leave, tossing aside every temptation he has regarding this man to put himself back on his original track.

Whether that track is the right one or not remains to be seen.

Barry takes off his gloves and pitches them, then runs his bare fingertips over the tape, his hands lingering on Len's shoulders before returning to his sides.

"I think you're all set," he says.

Len feels Barry place his discarded shirt in his hands. Without a word, Len slips it on. He takes his time straightening the hem, watching Barry unlock the front door.

"Thank you again, for everything you've done," he says when Barry returns to his work station, where Len feels planted. "I don't really know how to say it, but what you did means a lot to me."

Barry smiles. "I think you just did."

There's a tension between them, but it's not uncomfortable or unpleasant. It's filled with questions and compliments and things left unsaid. The twelve hours they've spent together doesn't seem like enough. It's too open-ended, and Len feels it's his responsibility to put a period at the end of this sentence. He gives Barry a wave, then turns towards the door. Barry watches him, getting an awful, pitted feeling in his chest that, regardless of what he feels passing between them, he might not see Len again.

"Hey" – Barry follows Len to the door – "d-don't I get a hug?" Barry's expression is comically awkward when Len meets his eyes. "I mean, your sister gave me one this afternoon."

"You mean _yesterday_ afternoon, don't you?" Len jokes, stopping a half-foot shy of the door.

"Oh, yeah. I guess it was, huh?" Barry rubs the base of his neck with his work-sore hand, doing a below average job with stiff fingers. "Well, was that just a Wednesday thing in the Snart household, or…"

"No, that's my sister's thing," Len says.

"Oh."

"But…" Len chews his idea over along with his inside right cheek. "If you'd let me…"

"Yes?"

Len puts a hand to Barry's cheek. He doesn't want to ask him out loud. It's definitely the P.C. thing to do, but it also seems so…gauche. There's also the fact that Len isn't use to asking for this, not when he really, really wants it…which he hasn't. Not for a while. But with his eyes flickering to Barry's lips, then back to his eyes, holding a gaze that's becoming darker by the second, he's more than certain that he's made his intentions clear. And even if he hasn't, he moves slowly, purposefully, putting his free arm around Barry's waist, giving him every opportunity to tell him to stop. He draws Barry close to him, and feels Barry's heart hammering against his own chest.

It's the most erotic thing in the world.

Barry ends up closing the distance between them, sliding their lips together, grabbing the waistband of Len's jeans and holding on for dear life. Len's arm tightens around Barry's waist, and he backs up to the window, dragging Barry with him, needing more of him – his body pressed against him, a leg wedged between his, giving Barry room to lean in. Barry's tongue inside Len's mouth sizzles with a tantalizing heat, making his body crackle, every swipe of Barry's tongue sending sparks down Len's throat. Len tries to flip positions, pulling away an inch, but Barry mutters, "Nu-uh," and deepens the kiss, anchoring his thumbs in the belt loops of Len's jeans, which Len is fine with.

As this kiss with Barry stretches on longer, Len finds he's negotiating with himself, seeing what he can do, what he can change to make this possible, and not just for this morning. He's seriously re-thinking a few of his life choices, and he's not at a place in his life where it's safe to do that. Knowing that, he keeps kissing Barry anyway, because there's no way he can leave his studio with just his tattoo to remember Barry by.

This isn't a simple first kiss. It's heated and desperate, but that doesn't make it worthless. As far as Len is concerned, that word doesn't exist in his vocabulary anymore, buried forever under the numerous touches and the stupendous talent of Barry Allen, who met Leonard Snart and didn't see a criminal; who witnessed his scars and didn't automatically see a broken little boy. He saw a man –a man that he's kissing as if every breath in his lungs that exists and will ever exist depends on Len being there to take them away from him.

As much as Len wants to be that man for Barry, he can't. Not now. Probably not ever.

And because of that, Len stands up from the window, slows down this kiss, and pushes Barry away.

"I hope…" Len glances down at Barry's mouth, a traitorous part of his brain contemplating shutting the hell up and kissing him again. He swallows that impulse. If he does what he's thinking of doing, what will inevitably follow a second kiss, Len won't leave. "I hope that was better than a hug."

"Yeah," Barry says, glimpsing the conflict in Len's eyes, frowning like he can read his thoughts. Considering everything else Barry Allen can do, Len wouldn't be surprised. "It was better. Much better."

Barry's arms latched to Len's hips are difficult to pull himself out of, but Len has to. He's never been a man who has lacked strength when he needed it, but he has to hit up all of his reserves to take a single step away.

"I'll see ya," Len says, knowing it's not a promise he can guarantee he'll keep, but he sure as hell's going to try.

"Yeah," Barry says. "See ya."

Len slips out of Barry's grasp and leaves, out the door with the clanging bells and into the dawning day, where spreading sunlight does its best to sweep the remains of the night from the ground. But traces of it cling, one sidewalk bathed almost entirely in shadow while the street and other sidewalk are both lit with a golden glow.

Len crosses the street, choosing to walk on the dark side.

Barry watches through the glass door as Len shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls away. He looks back once when he reaches the end of the block, then turns left at the corner. Barry follows Len with his eyes as he disappears down the adjacent street…then waits a moment longer.

But he's gone, and experience tells Barry that he's not coming back.

Barry locks the front door and wanders to his station, looking at the clock as he passes by. It reads fifteen after eight. Barry groans. It'd be fruitless to go home. There's no chance he's getting any sleep before the Queens come. He might as well stay and start cleaning for their visit. Barry tosses out the cups of used ink, looking at the colors one at a time, remembering their placement on Len's skin, how they fit into his dragon, picturing where every hue belongs. When the last cup is gone, he picks up his gun. He unplugs it, tosses out the needles, and wipes it down. He's about to stow it in its drawer, but he stops. He plugs it back in. He sits in his stool and puts on a new set of needles. He sets out a few clean paper cups. He pours out some colors – two shades of white, three of blue, a silver, one of black. He dips his needles in a cup of blue ink, and begins to draw on the back of his hand. It smarts like hell, this location notoriously sensitive, but he's done it so many times it hardly bothers him anymore. White joins the blue, and the two blend together, creating a muted shade. Quickly he adds silver, racing against time and his own body, trying to get this done, so he can see it once in its entirety before it fades. His hand wielding the gun vibrates, moving faster than a blur, using a unique ability he has yet to tell anyone about, one he doesn't understand himself. He goes over lines and fills in colors until he has the most realistic and dazzling snowflake of his career tattooed on the back of his hand. Barry raises his hand to look at it. It's positively fabulous, even in his own opinion. It's detailed, ornate, and sparkles in the light. He wishes he could have incorporated this somewhere in Len's tattoo, or placed it separate on Len's body – on his calf or on his bicep. Maybe on the back of his hand. It would have definitely been something to see. But like a real snowflake, Barry's tattoo doesn't last long. He sighs as he watches the delicate crystal of ice dissolve, melting into his skin, becoming only a memory.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So, just a few notes - I cut up this chapter because it was reaching the 10K mark, and all of the other chapters in this story have been around 4K-5K. I like to keep things consistent. Also, the second half of this evening that I'm writing changes tones from the first, and I like to divvy things up that way. But seeing as the final two chapters (really a chapter and an epilogue) are following on the heels of this one pretty quick, I don't think it should be an issue. That said - in this chapter, we get more of a mention of LoT aspects - the Waverider and Mick, etc.**

"Len?"

 _Knock-knock._

"Len? Are you in there?"

 _Knock-knock._

"Hey, Len? Are you still packing up? I thought you'd be outta here already."

 _Knock-knock-knock_.

Len goes over the contents of his rucksack, laid out on his bed, for the ninth time. Not that he has much to go over. Aside from his gun, a handheld communicator (that he uses to keep in contact with the Waverider as it travels through time, without him temporarily), a few other odd gadgets, some toiletries and some clothes, he packs fairly light. So there's nothing much to concentrate on. He's not necessarily ignoring Lisa's irritating knocking. His mind is in about a hundred and one places, none of them his bedroom at the present. Part of him is thinking about his upcoming mission. Part is anticipating another three on the horizon. Or eighteen. They never actually know until they get where they're going and fuck shit up how many more jumps through time it's going to take to fix it. But the rest of him, _most_ of him, is back at _The Flash Tattoo Studio_ , up against that shop window, kissing Barry. Len thought that kiss would be difficult to forget, but he was mistaken.

It's impossible.

His mind should be locked down in the here and now, but it keeps wandering, recalling every sound Barry made, the way he tasted, the weight of him against Len's body, his mouth, begging for more.

 _Knock-knock._

"Len, can I come in? I wanna talk to you, and I'd rather not do it through the door."

Len isn't really ready for visitors. Not even his sister. He has his shirt off, letting his tattoo get some air, and he's not in the mood to pull one on. That's when it hits him that maybe he shouldn't. This might be a good time for a test run, to voluntarily let someone see it before he ends up back in the close quarters of the Waverider, and someone seeing it becomes inevitable.

He looks over his shoulder at the mirror on the wall behind him; a square, rusted frame holding a loose piece of glass; the reflective layer oxidizing underneath. The reflection is still relatively clear, and he sees the face of the dragon – sage, powerful, staring up at the sky, ready to break loose, nothing in the world strong enough to hold him back.

Barry created it for him. Len is the only person who has this particular tattoo, who will _ever_ have this tattoo. He's thankful that Barry was able to do this for him. He should prove it by showing it off.

 _Knock-knock-knock-knock._

" _Leeeeennnnn_?"

"Come on in, Lisa," he calls. "Just don't touch anything."

"Hmpf," Lisa huffs as she opens the door and waltzes in. "Give me a little credit. I know better than to touch any of your…" Len can almost hear the moment when Lisa's eyes shoot wide open. "Oh my God! Len! You got a tattoo?"

"Yup."

"Is that…is that one of _Barry's_?"

"Yeah. He did it last night."

He hears her giggle, but then she goes strangely quiet. He feels the heat from her hand as her fingers hover shy of his skin, forcing herself not to touch.

"So," she says, softly, "you finally covered them up?"

The prickle of cold fingers crawl up Len's spine. "W-what do you mean?"

"Come on, Len," she says in a somber voice. "I'm your sister. Did you really think I didn't know? After everything dad did to you?" She pauses with a swallow he can feel gumming up his own throat. "Did you think…I didn't hear you scream?"

Len remembers trying so hard not to, not only because he didn't want his sister to know, but because it made everything worse when he did. His father would call him a wimp and a pussy, throw him down to the floor like a doll and hit him harder. There's no reasons to deny it. Not to his baby sister. Not anymore. As hard as he tried to protect her, he couldn't protect her from everything. He obviously hadn't protected her from this.

"C-can you see them?" he asks. "Through the tattoo? Can you tell that they were there?"

"No," Lisa says quickly. "Not at all. You can't see a thing, I swear. He did an amazing job. Hey!" Lisa exclaims. "He put _me_ in there!"

"What do you mean?" Len asks, twisting to get a better look. He's looked at it so much since he got it that he was sure he had it memorized. What was Lisa talking about?

"Well, not me, but…my butterfly." Lisa leans in to see more clearly, grumbling when Len turns away from the light. "It's kinda faint, but it's on the dragon's chest. Just an outline. You wouldn't see it if you weren't looking for it."

Lisa pulls out her cell phone, takes a picture, and sends it to him. His phone beeps in his pocket, and he fishes it out to take a look. He opens the image, magnifies it a bit, and there it is - Lisa's butterfly, masterfully worked in among the scales of the massive beast, right over its heart, in such a way that only he and Lisa would ever recognize it.

Butterfly…wasn't that Barry's _safeword_?

"So, does this mean the two of you might be an item soon?" Lisa asks, her coy grin looking mildly, but infuriatingly, ebullient, as if she had orchestrated this whole thing, and it was going exactly according to plan.

Len turns his attention back to his things, picking them up and tossing them into his bag. "Why would you think that?"

"Because I've got eyes and ears, Lenny. I heard the way he was he flirting with you, saw the way he looked at you. You kind of blew him off, but then you went back and got this. Last night!?" She blows out a breath between her teeth and shakes her head. "This must have taken _hours_. How many hours, Len? How long did this take?"

"Uh," Len stutters, knowing that his sister is waiting for an answer with a tickled-pink grin plastered to her face, "about…twelve…hours."

"Twelve hours, Len?" Lisa coughs like she swallowed her own tongue.  
"Twelver hours! That's longer than my last date with Cisco!"

"So?"

"So? He obviously likes you. And I think you like him," she says, poking his shoulder with her finger.

Len gives her an indignant laugh. "What are you talking about? I just met the guy."

"And?" She shrugs. "Why does that matter?"

"Because I can't, Lisa. You know the score. You know my life. There's no room." By the time he reaches that last word, his argument is all heat but no fire. "Besides, it's not only about me. If he gets wrapped up in my crap, he'll have to make sacrifices. And I don't want to ask him to do that. It's not right, and for what? A few dates a year when I make it back to 2016?"

 _If I make it back_ , he thinks. His last mission came pretty close to seeing Len turned into a pile of star dust. He can't guarantee that won't actually happen one of these days.

"Come on, Len," Lisa argues. It's been a long time since she's seen her brother genuinely happy. She's not willing to let this go. "Look, I know that what you're doing right now is super-secret, and I respect that…"

Len smirks. "Sure you do."

"I _respect_ it," she reiterates, "because you've changed. You're different. You're not the same thug you were before. And that's a good thing."

"But…" he says in anticipation of more.

" _But_ …you disappear, and then you pop back, and when I see you, you look like your bits and pieces have been sandblasted and rearranged. I get that this is important to you, but you need something else in your life - preferably a _someone_ who gives you a reason to keep going."

Len wants to laugh Lisa's comment off, get her to drop the subject, but she isn't just swinging hammers. She's hitting a few nails on the head. He's always prided himself on not needing anyone…except for Lisa. He'll always need Lisa. Then there's his oldest friend in the world - his partner Mick - when the man can keep it together. But Len can't deny that there's a bit of truth to his sister's assumption. He feels exactly that way – torn apart and put back together, whenever they jump through time. Sometimes he wonders what it is he's actually doing it all for. He can say he's doing it for the good of humanity, but that's kind of bullshit. Len never wanted to be a hero. He was fine being a crook and pulling heists. He's good at that. The more challenging the job, the greater the chance they could get caught, the better. He's an adrenaline junkie, which is part of the reason why he agreed to go on the Waverider in the first place. But once he realized he could be a hero, it felt right to be one, and it sort of took over his life.

But he can't do it forever. He's not sure he'd want to. He's already had a hand in saving the world several times already. Maybe that was enough.

"I have _you_ ," Len says, giving his little sister a softer, fonder grin.

"And as fabulous as I am," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, "you need a little more. You need something for yourself that no one else can touch or take away."

Len raises a brow at her naiveté, but he can't be too hard on her. She doesn't realize how untrue that statement is. He can't have anything like that. There will always be something, some force, trying to pull it away from him. He can't even count the amount of times his escapades, good and bad, have put his sister's life in jeopardy. She's his priority. He can't take on another one. He doesn't have the energy, or the ability, to juggle keeping two people special to him safe. Not with what he's doing.

Lisa sees his mind whirring, the objections flying by to cloud his vision. She knocks him out of the fog with a bump to the hip. With a side-eye glance, he bumps her back. She wraps her arms around his torso, head resting over his heart. He stops his mindless packing and hugs her. God, he loves her. She'll probably never know how much.

"I'm not saying marry the guy, Lenny. Just give him a chance. Be human for once." She sighs. This will be the last time she hugs her brother like this for a while. She could be selfish, ward Len away from Barry, and spend the day with Len all to herself. But if Len falling for Barry works the way she hopes, it might mean seeing her brother more often than she does. "Let him give you something to come back to."

* * *

At ten in the evening, Len finds himself walking, once again, down the sidewalk towards Barry's studio, still undecided as to what he's going to do when he gets there. Len had called and convinced the receptionist to tell him when Barry would be off. It turned out the Queens had showed up an hour late, and their session ran over. It didn't help Barry's schedule that they apologized by treating him to lunch from La Rouge, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Central City, and apparently took their dear sweet time eating it.

Len had made a face when he heard. At the moment, he can't take Barry to an upscale eatery like that. In 2016, Len is a bit too high profile to be showing his face in establishments where D.A.s, A.D.A.s, and the Police Commissioner hang out. He figures he'll wing it - walk in, see Barry, say _hey_ , and take it from there.

He's usually a stickler for planning his moves before he makes them. Mick often jokes that Len doesn't take a piss without a plan first. On the other hand, he's pulled off entire bank robberies with less of a plan than the one he currently has. He can definitely strategize _one_ impromptu date.

But when Len walks up to the studio and looks through the window, Barry isn't alone. He's not with the Queens. Actually, any trace of them is gone. Barry is talking with a man and a woman, around Barry's age, and by the way they're both clustered around him, the three of them appear to know each other well. The woman is talking animatedly, and Barry laughs, tossing his head back with the genuineness of it. The man, standing rather close to him, has to be a cop. Len could make him from a mile away - his practical haircut; the cut of his suit; his uptight, rigid posture. He has a hand on Barry's shoulder, almost possessively so. Len swallows hard and stares. His plan was to get to the studio and walk casually inside, bringing no attention to himself. Now, he's loitering. He shouldn't stand out on the sidewalk too long, but he does anyway, transfixed. He's out in the open, bathed in the light from the studio, practically giving himself away, but he can't not look.

Barry turns to the man on his left with affection in his smile. The man gives Barry a hug, and Barry embraces him with the sweetest smile on his face. Len feels his heart shudder. Then it solidifies. He turns and walks off.

How could he be so stupid? Coming back here, expecting what happened last night and this morning to mean anything today. Wasn't he smarter than this? Apparently not. He snaps his mind back in place, back to where it's supposed to be – his mission and his team and the Waverider. He turns down an alley and reaches into his pocket for his communicator. He's going to call the ship back right now. No reason to wait till the morning to…

"Hey! Hey, Len! Wait up!"

Len doesn't know why he decides to stop. He'd just convinced himself that this didn't matter, and he was better off gone. But he almost can't control his feet when he hears Barry's voice calling out to him, and that layer of excitement that means he's smiling.

Maybe even wider than he'd been smiling at haircut inside. Len doesn't know, he hasn't turned to face him yet.

"Hey, stranger," Barry says, his footsteps slowing as Len comes to a stop.

"Hey yourself," Len says. He turns around and yes, this smile that Barry is wearing as he looks at him is bigger. _Much_ bigger.

"I was just thinking about you, and here you are," Barry says. "I think I'm feeling lucky."

Len has to bite his lower lip to keep from smiling. _Barry was thinking about him?_

 _Was that before or after he started hugging haircut back there?_ Len thinks, his cynical brain determined not to let him make a fool out of himself. Because this is a mistake. He should tell Barry he stopped by to say thanks again for the tattoo, maybe slip him another hundred bucks, and then say goodbye for good. That would be the best thing for both of them. There's a thousand reasons why, even under perfect circumstances, this would never work.

If he honestly believes that, then why is he there?

"Yeah, well, I had to tie up some loose ends, and I happened to be in the area," Len lies.

Barry nods, but it doesn't seem like he completely believes Len's excuse, which is probably why his smile widens.

"Who's the Scooby Crew?" Len asks, pointing at the building.

"Oh" – Barry turns back towards his studio, even though there's no way to see inside from here – "them? That's my sort of sister and her boyfriend. They're heading down to Jitters for some trivia tournament, and they invited me along. There's room for one more if you wanna join."

"You know, I…don't really do well in crowds," Len says, feeling ridiculous for taking his sister's advice. When else in his life has that ever gone well for him? Maybe haircut isn't Barry's guy, but there has to be someone else he has his eye on. No way Barry doesn't have an admirer or two.

No way a man that hot and that humble goes to bed every night alone.

"Okay," Barry says, nodding with understanding, "then let me tell them I'll see them another time, and you and I can go do something."

Len shakes his head. "I don't want to take you away from your friends."

"Yes, but my friends are going to be around tomorrow." Barry tilts his head, the gesture, in itself, a question. "Are you?"

"I…I don't know." Len is caught between a rock and a hard place. This wasn't going the way he'd hoped at all. He wanted to catch Barry alone, ask him out on an informal date – coffee, a walk, maybe go to a movie. "But, you know, you probably don't want to waste your time..."

"Waste my time what?" Barry chuckles, taking a step forward. "Hanging out with a sexy guy like you?"

Len takes a step, too. "Sexy, huh?"

"Yeah" – Barry takes another step – "Sexy" – and another - "And do you know what's sexy, Snart? Consent. Consent is sexy." Barry comes eye to eye with Len and stops. "So how about instead of trying to make my mind up for me, you let me do it for myself?"

"And what do you want to do?" Len asks, fighting the urge to put an arm around Barry's waist and pull him in for a kiss.

"Well, you said you don't do well in crowds," Barry says. "How about you come up to my place? I'll order a pizza. We can do the Netflix thing. We can talk…" Barry steals a glance at Len's lips. "Or not talk, depending on our mood."

Len catches that glance, the tiny flicker of movement from Barry's eyes that tells Len they've been thinking about the same thing. "I think I can do that."

"Good." Barry grins victoriously, and though Len isn't about to say it out loud, he thinks it's fucking hot. "Give me five minutes."

"Five minutes," Len repeats.

"Unless, did you wanna come inside?"

Len takes a quick look around the alley. It's dark, empty, and more importantly, there are no cops around…unlike Barry's studio. In short, his kind of place. "I think I'll wait out here."

"Okay" – Barry takes a tentative step away – "but you've got to promise not to go anywhere."

"I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

Len watches Barry go, walking backward, keeping his eyes on him till he reaches the main sidewalk and jogs toward the studio. A second later, he peeks his head back, says, "Just making sure you're still there," and then takes off again.

Len laughs. He's never met a guy like Barry, not one he could tolerate for longer than two minutes together, anyway.

"Hey, guys. Change of plans," Barry announces as he walks into his studio and starts switching off lights. "It looks like the thing I was hoping might happen…is going to happen."

Iris raises a skeptical eyebrow. Barry hadn't filled her in on the details, just said that he'd met someone _interesting,_ and had hoped he might see them again – tonight, if at all possible. If he means what she thinks he means, then she couldn't be happier, although she would rather make this a double date than see Barry go off on his own. She feels it's her responsibility to personally evaluate Barry's potential paramours, and she takes that job very seriously. Barry is such a compassionate, giving soul. He takes people at face value more often than she feels he should. Being a journalist, she sees things that Barry overlooks. But Barry was raised by a cop the same way she was. She has to trust his instincts. To his credit, he's never been wrong before. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Iris, I'm sure," Barry says, leading them out. He knows that Iris worries about him. He'd love to introduce Len to her, put her at ease, but Len seems skittish. If Iris knew Len was waiting out in the alley, she would demand that Barry drag the poor guy in to meet her, then probably strong arm them into joining her and Eddie at Jitters. Len might just decide to take off, and Barry wouldn't get a second night alone with him. Barry had spent the day negotiating with a higher power that if he got this chance he would make the most of it. He needs to make good on that promise. "Now you guys get. I'll call you tomorrow."

Eddie and Iris barely step out the front door when Barry locks it, pulls down the gate and throws the padlock on that, too. He waves a quick goodbye and heads down the block, turning the corner into the alley where (thankfully) Len is waiting, having moved more towards the shadows, watching the entrance.

"Hello, handsome," Barry says. "Nice to see you stuck around."

"I'm a man of my word," Len says as Barry walks determinedly up to him. "But like I said, you don't have to put off your friends for me…"

The word _me_ gets trapped between Len's mouth and Barry's when Barry kisses him, wraps his arms around Len's waist and doesn't let go. Len slips his arms around Barry, holding him just as tight. Kissing Barry brings everything from this morning back – the sizzle, the heat, the conflict, glimpses of a life that can't ever be, and yet, here Len is, torturing himself with them, praying that he could make them true. Barry makes it so easy for him to forget that there is a life outside of kissing him, a place he needs to be that is beyond the reach of Barry's arms. When Barry holds Len, there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. He could let space and time drip away as long as he gets to stay right where he is.

Maybe Len wouldn't meet his fate on the Waverider. Maybe Barry would be the end of him.

"So," Len says, breath puffing against Barry's mouth which refuses to be parted farther than an inch from his, "where's this place of yours?"

"It's actually really close." Barry takes Len's hand and walks him around to the back of the building. There's only one metal door that Len can see, but Barry doesn't open it. Instead, he leaps up and grabs the ladder for the fire escape. Len watches Barry's shirt lift up, hoping he'll catch a glimpse of those beautiful scars. But Barry's clothes are layered, and all Len gets to see is the shirt underneath.

Barry pulls the ladder to a stop, then shakes it to make sure it's not coming off. It's an unnecessary habit of his, but a compulsive one.

"Do you do this every time you go to your place?" Len asks.

"Nah. There's a staircase inside," Barry says, climbing the ladder, "but Iris and Eddie are still kind of hanging around out front. I didn't want to put pressure on you to talk to them."

"That's good looking out," Len says. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Len follows Barry up the ladder, which Barry pulls up behind them when they reach the first landing. There's only one more flight up on a metal staircase, then a window, which Len assumes leads to Barry's place. Barry slides a thin piece of metal under the sill, and that springs the latch. He pushes on the glass, lifting the window up.

"You'd better be careful with that," Len says, gesturing to Barry's rig on the sill. "You don't want just anyone getting in here."

"I don't come through this way that often, and the window is alarmed." Barry reaches an arm in to punch some numbers on a key pad installed on the wall. "After thirty seconds, if I don't shut it off, about half of the CCPD shows up." Barry chuckles in a way that makes Len wonder if that hasn't happened once or twice already. "Besides, the only other person who knows about it besides Iris…and Eddie…and Joe…is you." Barry climbs in and steps aside so Len can, too. "I'm not sure I'd mind if I showed up one night and found you sitting on my sofa."

Barry throws Len a flirty wink and closes the window. Len resists the urge to tell Barry how he's the most brilliantly naïve person he's ever met.

The loft is pitch black, which sets Len's internal security system on high alert. Not even the street lights from outside seem to penetrate it. But Barry knows his way around, and he…there's something about him. He almost glows in the dark. No, he doesn't actually glow, but Len can see him – his figure – walking through the total blackness. Lisa would call it Barry's aura, but that's not it. It's just…Barry.

Barry starts flipping on lights and the atmosphere changes. He has mostly track lighting, situated to illuminate specific spaces – the kitchenette where they first came in, a wall of paintings in the living room, the sofa, the bedroom – with the ambient light casting a sheen everywhere else. Len marvels as he watches the loft unfold. He had expected an exact duplicate of the studio downstairs. The loft is starker, less trendy, but more personal – the walls are a deep purple, except for one wall at the far end, the face of the building, that's been left brick; the floors are wood, probably original to the structure; the furniture simple; a few windows, covered in blackout curtains; but the paintings Barry has hanging, _those_ are the showcase of the place. There's not a single poster, no mass produced pop art, no photographs that aren't of Barry and his family, but the majority of Barry's decor are paintings, and those painting, Len knows, are Barry's own work.

"You've got an enviable amount of space here," Len remarks.

"I lucked out," Barry replies, keeping an eye on Len strolling through his living room. "It was equal parts loft and storage for the shop downstairs. I think it used to be a bodega or something. When I bought the building, I converted the whole space."

Len's eyebrows shoot up. "You _bought_ the _building_?"

"Yeah, well...I had a feeling I'd never want to leave it."

Len takes another look around, assessing the place through the eyes of a thief. If Barry has some enormous flow of wealth, no one would guess it from his loft alone. He has no keepsakes other than his photographs, hanging in frames he could have bought for five dollars a piece at Target; no valuables displayed. He doesn't wear any jewelry, and his clothes don't look high end. The only thing of worth he has is the property he owns.

Well, no. That's no entirely true.

"These are fantastic," Len says, going down the line of paintings. There are landscapes and a few still lifes – the Missouri River, the front of his studio, his tattoo gun. But most of them are portraits, hung in pairs. The first two are of a man and a woman who have to be Barry's mom and dad. Barry has his mother's kind green eyes, his father's determined chin, and the rest is a subtle blend of both faces. They make an attractive couple, but they look so sad. The expression in his mother's eyes is heartbreaking, and his father…he seems so lost, so trapped, as if he's looking out from his portrait, begging for help. Len figures Barry might have painted it after visiting his dad in lock-up. Len has seen a lot of guys in prison with that look on their faces. They're usually the guys with families on the outside.

The next pair of portraits are also of a man and a woman. The woman is younger than the man, but they look like they're related. Len realizes, after a moment of contemplation, that he recognizes the woman. "This is your friend, right? Iris?"

"Yeah," Barry says with a sheepish smile.

"Has she ever seen this one?" Len moves around the portrait, looking at it from every angle.

"No. No one has. I haven't invited anyone up here in…gosh…ages."

Len nods. "I can see why you wouldn't show this one to her."

Barry frowns. "Is it _that_ bad?"

"Are you kidding?" Len chuckles. "It's incredible. It's just…"

"Just…"

Len examines the painting more closely, eyes tracing every bush stroke, the swirls of color – browns, blues, hints of green - overlapping to make up the warm hue of her skin, the touches of pink, white, and lavender he used to add highlights…the reflection of himself inside her eyes, blurred, as if there's something about himself that she doesn't see clearly.

"Does she know that you're in love with her?"

Barry blushes uncomfortably. "You're…uh…very perceptive."

Len shrugs "I might know a thing or two about great art."

Barry glances down with a reluctant smile. "I've never told her," he admits. "But that doesn't matter now. She's with someone, and he's…great. Besides, I did that painting a while ago."

"And your feelings have changed?" Len asks. If there's a hint of hope in his tone, he can't be blamed. That's what this is, what the last day has been about - _hope_. Hope for something more in his life. Hope that his life can be more than it's been.

"Yes." Barry doesn't raise his head, only his gaze, a gesture that darkens his eyes, makes them mysterious and chilling. "Quite a bit."

That look in Barry's eyes, the way his voice deepens to match, reminds Len of their kiss. Suddenly, that glow Len perceives around Barry, his aura, becomes brighter, blinding…

"So, is pizza good for you?"

Barry's question shocks Len back, stops him from vaulting over the sofa and taking Barry then and there. Len laughs from the whiplash. Man, but Barry Allen is brutal when it comes to subject changes. "When is pizza _not_ good?"

"I'm just checking," Barry says, playfully putting up his hands in defense. "Now, before you say a word, let me guess, because I'm usually good at this…" Barry closes his eyes, and puts a finger to his temple, taking on an appearance of deep concentration. Len watches, the whole time thinking _fuck dinner_. He should walk over and kiss him. Barry smiles, and Len becomes nervous, as if Barry might have read his mind, saw what he was picturing - the two of them on the sofa, Barry lying on top of Len, in the midst of a heated make-out session, Len's hands creeping underneath Barry's shirt, searching for those scars. But there's a second when Barry's face shifts. No, it blurs, then goes back to normal just as quick. "I'm thinking that you usually order all the meat, bell peppers, onions, and…maybe…black olives?"

Barry peeks open one eye. Len grins. "How did you know?"

Barry shrugs. "It's a thing I do," he says, pulling out his cell phone. "I haven't been wrong yet." He stops mid-dial as something occurs to him. "Either that, or I have really awesome friends who refuse to tell me I'm wrong in fear of hurting my feelings, and they've all been eating pizza they hate for years."

Len hasn't known Barry that long, but from the looks of Iris and her boyfriend, and from what Barry has told him about the man who raised him, that sounds like the sort of friends Barry would have.

"Well, I can't speak for them," Len says, "but you pretty much nailed my favorite pizza."

"Good" - Barry dials the last four digits - "cuz it happens to be my favorite, too."

"You're lying."

"I wouldn't lie about something as important as pizza," Barry says, phone to ear. "I'm very picky about what I put in my mouth." Barry wiggles his brows suggestively as he starts placing their order.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: A lot of people have asked me where this fits in with the timeline of the show (Earth One). The answer to that is it doesn't. I would say imagine that this takes place on an alternate Earth, as if we are glimpsing Barry Allen and Len and company on Earth 23 or something. I'm actually writing a ficlet where this Len runs into Earth One Barry Allen, so, there's that to look forward to. xD Thank you so much for sticking around this long. I hope you enjoy this chapter. :D**

 _"_ _Is he gonna make it?"_

 _"_ _I don't know."_

 _"_ _Tell me about the shooter."_

 _"_ _He's fast and strong. He had a metal arm."_

 _"_ _Ballistics?"_

 _"_ _Three slugs. No rifling and completely untraceable."_

 _"_ _Soviet made?"_

 _"_ _Yeah."_

Barry watches Len more than the movie that's on, fascinated by how absorbed he is in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. He had started out relaxing against the cushions of the sofa, but has progressively scooted forward to the edge of his seat, leaning in towards the television screen, as if he's ready to jump into the fray.

Barry chews on his pizza crust and thinks. They spoke for hours the other night, and Barry felt they'd made a connection. He wanted to see Len again so badly, to see if that feeling was a fluke. It wasn't. From that first kiss in the alley, Barry knows there's a definite attraction, and it's not just physical. He wants to know this man. He feels comfortable around him. As inconceivable as it sounds, Barry feels like they may have known one another before, in a different life or a different time. Iris would laugh at him if he told her, but it's a feeling so strong, he can't rule it out. Barry has spent most of his life believing in the impossible. He can't turn his back on it now.

And showing up at his studio, when he should be gone, after Barry spent the whole day thinking about him? That has to mean something, like Len feels the same way.

But here he is, eating pizza and drinking beer on Barry's sofa, and Barry still knows nothing about him apart from the fact that he grew up with an abusive father, and he practically raised his sister. There are so many questions Barry wants to ask Len about his life, where he came from, what he's been doing the past few years, where he sees himself in the future. On the other hand, he's so much fun to watch, intent, as if he's finding flaws in every part of Captain America's plan, but also like he's dying to get a piece of the action.

Len feels Barry staring. His eyes shift from the screen to Barry's face, and he sits up, his shoulders squared with tension.

"What?" he asks.

"So, you like super hero movies?"

"I have a soft spot for do-gooders." Len reaches for his bottle of IPA, but with Barry's eyes on him, he begins to get self-conscious. He holds the bottle by the neck, but doesn't raise it to his mouth. "What?"

"Nothing," Barry says, toning down his stare. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

"And what do you know so far?"

"Well, you seem like a man who's married to his work," Barry says, leaning against the arm of the sofa.

"Why would you think that?" Len asks, confused.

"You always have a kind of far off look in your eye, and that usually means family trouble or work issues. Of course, with your sister to keep an eye on, it could be both."

Len turns on the couch and leans against the arm the way Barry is, mirroring his posture. He's inclined to agree - work has always taken up a huge portion of his life, as has his sister. But the more he thinks about it, the more arguments to the contrary start to pop into his head.

"I'm not sure if it is that, really," he says. "I just…I've always had Lisa to take care of, you know? And when she got old enough to fend for herself, I had myself convinced that I was still doing what I was doing because I loved it."

"And…you don't anymore?" Barry asks.

This is a subject that's plagued Len for a while being on the Waverider. Sure, it feels good being the hero. At this point in his life, it feels like what he was meant to do. But when it comes down to it, can he stop being a criminal? There have been patches where he's had to go on hiatus, when things got too hot and he had to lay low. But no matter how perilous things seemed, even with his massive amount of patience, something inside him itched to get out. Would he really be able to quit cold turkey, settle down, and live out the rest of his life as an average citizen? What exactly would he do with his time? Learn to golf? Work as a cashier at The Home Depot? Drive a city bus? Run for mayor?

He could always take up painting. Barry might be willing to teach him.

But give up being a thief, and what was he? He still has to look after Lisa, and last time he checked, being a hero didn't pay that well.

"I don't know the answer to that," Len says, taking a sip of his beer. "To be honest, I've been doing what I'm doing for a helluva long time. I don't know that I could do anything else."

"Really?" Barry rests the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other, making himself comfortable, showing that he's interested. "How long?"

Len opens his mouth to answer, but the answer stalls. In essence, he's been gone decades. But then Rip brings them back to a few months after they left, and life seems to start all over again. He's been to 2166 and back, but as far as Lisa is concerned, in 2016, he's only been gone about five or six months. "You know," Len says, "I have no idea. My head's not in to doing the math right now, so…"

"That's okay," Barry says, bracing to ask the big question on his mind. "If you don't mind my asking, what _do_ you do?"

"Uh" – Len glances at the television screen, then back at Barry, trying to think up a convincing lie. But he doesn't want to lie to Barry, no more than the white ones he's already told. "I really can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"It's…kind of…complicated."

"Ah," Barry says, disappointed. "I see."

"Well, what do _you_ think I do?"

"When I first saw you, the way you carry yourself, the way you talk, I thought you had to be, like, FBI or CIA or something. But you mentioned being in prison, so I'm thinking, maybe not."

"No," Len chuckles. "Definitely not."

"You sort of talk like a henchman from that _Dick Tracy_ movie," Barry says, feeling immediately guilty for comparing Len to a comic-book character. But Len snickers.

"Is that bad?"

"No. It's just…a little over the top."

"You're getting warmer," Len says, debating how much he's willing to tell Barry about his profession.

Barry sits forward, his expression becoming remarkably devious, as if he knows he's on the brink of closing in on Len's secret. "So, are you telling me I'm on a date with a wanted man?"

The word _date_ strikes Len before the words _wanted man_ do. "Would it bother you if I said I was?"

Barry takes a second to think about it, then shakes his head. "Not really. I mean, I wish I could say that it did, that it was an absolute deal breaker."

Len's brow furrows. "Why?"

"Because isn't that the supposed _right thing_ to do? Especially since I was raised by a cop, and my dad's in jail for something he didn't do. But the truth is, you have to prove that I _can't_ trust you just as much as you need to prove that I can, and all you've done so far is prove that I can trust you. So, no. For the moment, I choose to believe that you're a decent man until you show me otherwise."

The smile on Len's face, reserved to begin with, falls. The next thing he's about to say could destroy this evening, and any chance he has with Barry, but he has to know, "And what if I told you that I was a killer?"

Len expects Barry to think about this answer, too, but it flies out of his mouth as if it were waiting on the tip of his tongue.

"My first instinct would be not to believe it."

Len doesn't know whether to appreciate Barry's open-minded attitude or be pissed. It's one thing to give people the benefit of the doubt. It's another to be blind to the truth. Maybe they are speaking in hypotheticals, but there's a reason why people ask questions 'hypothetically'. It's how they slip truths by, where people won't find them hiding.

"Then you'd be a little bit naïve," Len says with a bite.

"I know I may come off that way, but I'm not," Barry says without offense. "I've spent a lot of time around cops and around criminals. Maybe I'm biased because of my dad, but I've seen a lot of guys in Iron Heights, and I know that they might deserve to be in there, but that doesn't necessarily make them bad men."

"I'm not innocent, Barry," Len says flatly.

"But that doesn't necessarily make you a bad man."

"What do you really know about me, huh?" Len finds himself getting angry, but he doesn't know why. If Barry is going to accept him, he needs to accept everything about him…but how can he if Len doesn't tell him the truth? That's Len's fault, not Barry's.

"Admittedly not much. But I know you love your sister. And my mom used to say that nine times out of ten, you can trust a person who loves their family."

"And why's that?"

"Because a person who loves their family believes in something bigger than themselves."

Len looks down at the bottle of beer in his hand, needing to focus on something other than Barry's face in order to think. That sounds like something he'd expect Barry to say. He just never thought that anyone, Barry included, would say it about him.

"You know, a lot of people I meet, they don't usually try to see the good in me. So, I think that it's difficult for me to see it for myself."

Barry contemplates Len's thought with a nod of his head. "Then maybe it's time you start off fresh, with someone who _wants_ to see the good in you."

Len's reserved smile blooms back on his face. "You know, maybe you're right."

Len feels a vibrating in his pocket – his communicator going off, alerting Len that his time in 2016 is coming to a close. The last estimate was somewhere around eight hours. The crew of the Waverider had been in the middle of some sort of trouble, and neither Rip, Gideon, Mick, nor Sara could clue him in on the details. But whatever range they're at, they're close enough that Len should expect them by morning, as planned, on schedule.

A Time Master is never late.

"Well," Len says, finishing his beer and setting the bottle on the floor, "it's getting to be about that time, and…"

"Yeah," Barry agrees reluctantly, standing when Len stands, seeing him to the front door. "Is there any chance that you'll be around tomorrow?"

"Not this time," Len says, trying to sound definite that leaving is what he wants to do. "My ride called to confirm. It's coming in the morning."

"Oh, that's…that's too bad," Barry says, walking slowly behind Len, who isn't walking much faster. "It would have been nice to have you pop up unexpectedly again."

"It would have," Len agrees.

Barry unlocks the door and opens it. "Well, anytime you're in town, mi casa es su casa. You already know how to get in." Barry gestures toward the window. "You can always stop by early, raid the fridge before I get here. And don't worry about the alarm. I'll keep it disarmed, just in case."

As much as Len is touched by Barry's offer, he wants to tell Barry not to do that for him. He can't give Barry any guarantees. But he can't bring himself to. He can't ruin this daydream – not for Barry, and not for himself. "That's real nice of you. I appreciate that."

There's a long pause, not awkward but unfinished – too much not said, too much left unknown, a goodbye without a promise of a return. Len wants to kiss Barry, he wants to hold him, but would that be fair? To give Barry hope the way Len had been taking hope from Barry all evening when he has none to replace it with? If he kisses Barry now, and it's the last kiss they ever share, it will add another scar to the collection Barry already has. It'll be a new one for Len as well, one that doesn't show, but it won't be on his back this time.

It'll be inside his heart. There are only two others there – one from the day his mother died, and the other from the day Len's dad almost killed his sister.

No. Len can't keep doing this to himself, and he can't do it to Barry, even as Barry stares at him, praying that he will. But if Len wants to be the hero, he has to stop being a selfish ass and actually start doing what's right for a change, without being on the Waverider, and without a gun in his hand.

"Bye, Barry." Len walks out the door, but, this decision doesn't only belong to him, and like on the sidewalk before Len got his tattoo, Barry's hand on his arm stops him.

"Don't leave," Barry begs. He takes a step, close enough to brush the tip of Len's nose with his own, lips hovering around his mouth.

"Barry…" Len says as a warning, but he can't keep himself from moving closer, too, "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"You're probably right, but I don't care," Barry says. "If you're leaving in the morning, then stay the night with me? Please?"

Len looks at Barry's hand on his bicep, his gaze traveling up Barry's arm to his eyes. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes." Barry tugs gently, kissing the bridge of Len's nose. "I really want to do this. D-do…do you?"

"Yeah," Len says, walking back into Barry's loft. "I really, _really_ do."

Len waits to hear the door click shut and Barry bolt the lock, then he pulls Barry into his arms and kisses him. Barry grabs Len's shirt and leads him through the living room towards his bedroom, lips claiming his every step of the way. As soon as they walk through the doorway, with Barry's bed within reach, Len lifts off Barry's shirts and tosses them aside. He comes face to face with those lightning marks, those branching scars. They call to him in a way that nothing ever has before, especially the worst one – the one over Barry's heart. At this range, Len can see the raw devastation of it. Had whoever given that to him been able to plunge their knife farther into Barry's chest, Barry would have been dead, no doubt about it. Len finds himself kissing that scar over and over, and Barry lets him, leaves him to explore every mark on his skin. No one ever has before. Most people avoid looking at them, touching them, as if the tragedy in Barry's life is a disease, and by confronting those scars, they might catch it, too.

But a man who's suffered the kind of scars that Len has beneath the tattoo on his back has no fear of lightning.

Len reaches for the fly to Barry's jeans as he kisses down his chest while Barry fumbles to toe off his sneakers.

"Did you…did you want me to put on some music…or something?" Barry mumbles, fainter and fainter with each word trying to bypass his lips while moans compete for space in his throat.

"No," Len mutters, pausing to toss off his own shirt, and then maneuver Barry onto the bed. "I wanna hear you. Just you."

"Oh…oh, well that's…" _Good? Nice?_ Even Barry doesn't know. Whatever he meant to say evaporates when Len pulls down his briefs and takes him into his mouth. This isn't usually Len's style. He doesn't get down on his knees for anyone. But he wants all of Barry – every sound out of his mouth that Len can get him to make, the taste of Barry's skin on his tongue, the thickness of his cock in his mouth. He wants to kiss every inch of flesh, suck hickeys in places where they'll never show. He wants to brand Barry in every nerve and every muscle.

He wants Barry to feel him long after he's gone.

"L-len," Barry squeaks, bending his knees up to take off his socks, fingers shaking as they hook into the cuffs when spreading his legs makes what Len is doing that much more intense. "Len…God, Len…"

"Barry," Len moans, one hand working open the buttons to his jeans while he trails bites along the scars on the inside of Barry's thighs. Barry's nails scratching Len's head become a huge distraction as he tries to kick off his shoes and yank off his socks. His pants and briefs he manages to lose in one swoop as he rises from the floor and climbs over Barry's body, wrapping around him like a vine, determined not to let go.

"God," he says, kisses putting space between his words, "it's been…so long…"

"Yeah," Barry says, "I know what you mean."

That comment gives Len pause, and he laughs nervously. He didn't think he'd get this far, so he completely forgot…

So much for his impromptu plan. He should go back to doing what he's good at – overthinking things to death.

"Uh…you wouldn't happen to have…" Barry sees Len's eyes dart away, and he stomps down an urge to laugh at this stoic, tough, incomparable man getting nervous about _that_.

"Yeah," Barry says. "I do. In the nightstand."

"Good." Len pulls Barry up to the head of the bed, refusing to let go of him for even a second. "Because this was about to be the shortest hook-up in history."

"Not a chance," Barry assures him. "There's a Walgreens on the corner. I can be there and back in under five minutes."

"That's…uh…a little incredible…" Len doesn't entertain the idea that Barry might be exaggerating. If Barry says he can be there and back in under five minutes, Len believes it.

"I've been thinking about this…about _you_ …since you left my shop," Barry admits. "And I'm not letting a little thing like running out for condoms get in the way."

"So…you want me?" Len asks, revisiting Barry's mouth, kissing him gently, leaving him enough space to answer, but no more than that. It's fairly obvious, though, with the way Barry is hard against him, but Len wants to hear Barry say it. He wants those words on his tongue along with his kisses and his moans.

"Yes," Barry whispers, chasing Len's lips as he inches away. "Yes, I want you."

"Are you sure?" Len teases, enjoying this game of _cat and mouse_ he's devised between his mouth and Barry's.

But Barry stops chasing Len's mouth and looks into his eyes. "Why don't you kiss me again, Captain Cold, and find out?"

Barry calling Len _Captain Cold_ , in that husky, lust-filled voice of his, floods Len's body with _want_. Searing, soul-splitting _want_.

"As you wish, Barry Allen." Len asks no more questions, completely possessed by kissing Barry so deeply he feels one with him. He spends long moments just touching Barry, running the flats of his palms over his back and shoulders, down to cup his ass, fingertips trailing the soft, sensitive skin underneath the swell of muscle and flesh. He counts those lightning marks one by one on the return trip up his spine. He threads his fingers into Barry's hair and holds him tight against his mouth, devouring gasps, then moving to his neck and laying claim to that as well. Every moan out of Barry's mouth Len captures with his own, the warmth of his body, steadily heating beneath his hands, he absorbs into his skin, leaving no room between them for anything else. And Len is happy to keep it this way, not go any further, until Barry starts rutting against him.

"More," Barry whispers. He reaches behind him to the small nightstand beside his bed and roots blindly through the top drawer. He returns quickly, shoving something under his pillow, and pressing a bottle of lube into Len's palm. Barry's fingers graze Len's back over the healing tattoo, tracing the lines he'd drawn without a need to see them. There's an erotic thrill to Barry having that tattoo set to memory.

Having something on Len's body burned into his brain.

Len flips open the bottle and coats his fingers in lube. He traces a line down Barry's back and Barry arches into it, the sensation of Len's slick fingertips sending sparks flying through his nerves, like the lit fuse on a stick of dynamite. He reaches Barry's tailbone and slips his hand past the crack of Barry's ass, massaging almost too roughly in search of his entrance. But if Len is a little rough, it doesn't faze Barry in the slightest. He wants to be touched by Len. He wants Len inside him so badly, he's not above begging. Just as Barry opens his mouth to plead for something, _anything_ , Len slips his middle finger inside Barry's body, stretching him, with a hint of burn, but not too much.

"Oh, God," Barry groans with a hiss underneath. Len stops.

"Did I…hurt you?" he asks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Barry winds his legs and arms tighter around Len's body. "Just… _mmm_ …keep going."

"Alright," Len whispers, finger sliding further in, then all the way out. Len feels Barry's body engulf him – the heat clenched tight around his finger, his muscular legs intertwined with his, his arms snaking around his torso. Barry rolls on top of him. He kisses Len's neck with trembling lips, spellbound by the sensations of Len opening him up.

"Oh…oh, Len…oh, God…don't stop…"

Len adds another finger and Barry goes still, his moans changing pitch, turning into whines - the switch, the intonation, the frequency, embedding into Len's memory.

"Yes…" Barry whimpers, bucking back to meet Len's finger. "Yes…yes…yes…oh God…"

Len can tell by Barry's reaction to being fingered, to being scissored open, that he wasn't lying. It _has_ been a long time. Len can't help being amazed by that. How? How can it possibly be that no one wants a piece of this gorgeous man, the one unraveling at his touch? Or is Barry just insanely picky? What's going on between them might seem to have come about fast, but maybe Barry isn't a fan of one-night stands. For as outgoing as he is, he also seems private, only opening up to a select inner circle.

For Len to be included in that inner circle is an honor.

"Oh, Len…can you…can we…" Barry can't get a complete sentence out, and Len loves it. Every time Barry opens his mouth, Len pushes harder, faster, and Barry's voice fails. Barry scrabbles under the pillow and passes a condom over to Len, but he doesn't take it, kissing Barry hard and burying his fingers to the last knuckle, sweeping around until he finds...

"Mmm _Len_! Len, stop!" Barry puts his hands on Len's shoulder and pushes away, but he only gets as far as Len is willing to let him go. "Please…I…"

"I've gotcha," Len says, finally taking the condom. He untangles from Barry's full-body embrace to put it on.

"How did you want to…?" Barry asks.

"Sit in my lap, Barry?" Len begs, grabbing Barry and pulling him back.

Barry straddles Len's hips. Staring into Len's eyes, he lines up their bodies, preparing himself mentally for something he hasn't done in so long, there's a part of him that's afraid he's going to do something embarrassingly stupid, like bend Len's cock or cum too early. Barry doesn't feel he's a slouch as far as sex is concerned, but Len just seems so much… _more_. Barry may never see this man again. He wants the impression Len leaves with to be a good one - no regrets.

Len holds Barry steady. Slowly, Len slips inside his body. Barry's head falls back, his jaw drops open, and he's rendered temporarily useless. Even when Barry did have a regular partner, it'd been a while since he's let someone fill him up this way. He can't believe how much he's missed this.

Fuck being able to get along alone. It wasn't what he preferred, it's just that he was used to it. He had walled himself in, hadn't let himself be free this way with anyone.

But he wouldn't have considered it if Len hadn't come along.

Barry settles into Len's lap, taking a breather, getting ready to move, but Len hugs him.

"Just…just stay for a moment," Len says.

"Okay." Barry relaxes against him, with no intention of moving whatsoever. "Just tell me when."

Len nods, but he doesn't say a thing, nothing for a long time. He holds Barry in his arms, and lets himself be held. Len knows that the second he gives Barry permission to move, he's that much closer to this being over. He takes in a breath and holds it, waiting to see if he can make time stand still inside that one breath. It's ridiculous. He knows it is. He's seen the way time works. But it's worth a shot.

"Len?" Barry tries to look at Len's face, but he's holding Barry too tight against him, and he can't move. "Len…are you alright? Did you change your mind? Did you not want to do this?"

Len lets go of his breath, and loosens his grip so Barry can lean back and see him.

"Barry, I can't think of anything I've wanted more in years." He smiles slyly. "Besides my tattoo. I was just wondering…"

"Wondering what?"

"After we do this, what's it gonna mean…for you and me?"

"I think it'll mean whatever we want it to mean," Barry says. "But we might not know until we get there."

"Yeah," Len agrees. "You're right."

Barry rolls up experimentally on his knees and slides back down, watching Len's eyes grow rounder, his lips part with a soft gasp, his Adam's apple bob with a heavy swallow. Barry does it again, and Len's fingers curl in to Barry's hips. Len doesn't try to move Barry, or push him to go faster. He's content to hold him and watch his body move, watch his breathing quicken, watch his eyes grow dark, with a hint of something crackling underneath.

There is an undeniable magic to having Barry in his arms, as if those things that make him special, those quirks that Len doesn't quite understand, fill Barry with power. Len feels it all around him, like Barry is the vortex of a storm, sweeping Len up in him. Len has become so use to the cold and dark of traveling through time, and Barry is pure energy. He burns where he surrounds Len, and Len almost can't breathe.

"Oh, God…Barry…" Len watches Barry pick up the pace, his hips pistoning faster and faster, until sitting with a foot of space between them is too far for Len. He surges forward and locks his lips over Barry's scar, sinking his teeth in.

Barry groans, not from the pain, but from the swell of emotion inside him that's part rapturous orgasm, part breaking heart. He feels the arms locked around him shake, Len coming apart while still wrapped around him. Barry starts falling to pieces, too, making Len's arms around him the only thing keeping him together.

"Barry, I'm… _fuck_ , I'm…" Len suddenly doesn't have the words to tell Barry that he's cumming, and it's not the physiology of the blood in his body traveling away from his brain, or his own spectacular climax stealing his ability to speak. It's because nothing he can say can possibly add to this moment. It can only take away. Telling Barry that he's cumming seems too crude. Saying anything else seems too cruel. So instead he takes over, thrusting up into Barry's body and holding him, tighter and tighter until he knows he's got to be hurting him. But Barry doesn't seem to feel pain, a look of pleasure on his face so intense, it's a mirror of Len's own.

Len doesn't look up from the scar on Barry's chest as he cums, biting down until he thinks he'll break skin. Barry puts a hand to the back of Len's neck, holding him there. This touch specifically is the one thing he's been missing; he needs Len to keep going.

"Ah! Ah, Len! Oh, God…" Barry's hand, gripping the back of Len's neck, starts to cramp, but he's cumming so hard, charged by that bite that if Len stops, it'll be catastrophic. Barry's body goes rigid, his vision goes white. His chest feels constricted, his heart beating so fast, there's no way his ribcage is going to be able to contain it. His hips stop rocking and simply stutter, whatever signal connects his muscles to his brain shorting out along the way, causing his arms to twitch instead. As Barry works through his orgasm, his muscles start to unhinge, and he falls against Len, arms draped over his shoulders, breathing hard enough to hurt. But Barry doesn't care if he never catches his breath, if he never moves, or gets out of his bed. He could stay in Len's arms for the conceivable future and be sublimely happy. But Barry is pretty sure they don't have the future. He's not sure _what_ they do have.

And in the silence of Barry's bedroom, that long, unfinished pause from earlier resurfaces.

Barry looks in Len's face, but he can't tell if the expression that's taken over is one of sadness…or regret.

"Uh…" Barry stretches out his arms and unfolds his legs. He tries to pull away, but his heart won't let him. "I think…I'm getting a stitch in my side."

"Oh. Sorry." Len pries his hands from Barry's hips and lets them drop to his sides, but he doesn't want Barry to leave. He feels whole with Barry in his arms. He'll feel empty without him. Barry climbs out of Len's lap, ready to crawl off the bed and head for the shower, but Len wraps his arms around him from behind.

"Did you want to take a shower? Clean up?" Barry asks, assuming the answer when Len starts huddling under the covers with him in his arms.

"If it's all the same to you," Len says, "I'd rather not. I don't want to wash you off me yet."

As crushing as this silence around them is becoming, Barry is relieved by that, but Len _is_ going to wash Barry away eventually, and that makes Barry's stomach turn. It brings to mind how tenuous this is, how brief this _relationship_ might be.

Maybe Len was right. Maybe being together like this right before he's about to disappear was a mistake.

Barry rolls on to his back and puts an arm over Len's.

"You're going to leave before I wake up," Barry says matter-of-factly. "Aren't you?" He knows he's right, but he has to add the question in the hopes that Len might say no, he won't leave, he'll at least stay till the morning so they can say one last goodbye.

Barry stares at the ceiling. He doesn't know where else to look. If he looks right at Len, he runs the risk of breaking down, begging him to stay, which he knows will make this harder on both of them. If he turns his back on him, he's essentially showing he doesn't care if Len stays or goes.

And Barry cares. He cares too much.

"I…I don't know," Len says. "I haven't decided." He watches Barry sigh till his shoulders droop. "Unfortunately, I'm not the one who gets to make those decisions."

"Who does?"

"I can't…tell you that."

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

"Look, Barry, I told you my life was complicated."

"Yeah?" Barry snaps, but it diffuses with a guilty sigh. "Yeah, you did. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get on your case."

"Don't be." Len slides down and throws an arm over Barry's stomach. "I'd be offended if you didn't."

"Why's that?" Barry asks. Len rests his head on Barry's chest, and Barry drops a kiss on the crown of Len's head.

"Because then this wouldn't have meant anything."

"You know, you could stay," Barry says, his voice soft, as if he doesn't actually want Len to hear. Not because his offer isn't genuine, but because he doesn't want it shot down. "Another day, a few days, as long as you want, until you figure things out."

"Thanks, Barry. But, the kind of figuring out I need to do, I can't do here."

Barry sighs. "Offer's always open."

Len kisses the scar above Barry's heart. He presses an ear against it, searching for Barry's heartbeat. He finds it, thrumming faster than any heartbeat should, Len imagines, and he smiles. It wouldn't be Barry's heartbeat if it wasn't unusual. "I appreciate that."

* * *

It starts over again with a kiss, Len pulling Barry into his arms, bringing Barry's body to life long before the man even opens his eyes.

Len hadn't planned on this. He was just going to leave. It's after three a.m. He wanted to be gone before sunrise. He's still a wanted man in many respects. He didn't want to risk walking the streets at dawn, when there's no one else out and about, and the cops would be changing shifts, putting twice as many on the streets. Besides, he can tell by the amount of "Where are you?" communiques he's received from Mick, Sara, and other members of his team that he won't be able to put off the Waverider any longer.

His time in 2016, and with Barry, are officially up…for now.

It had started to rain, which would have been the best cover for him. But something else happened. Thunder rolled outside. Lightning lit the sky, and from inside Barry's loft, something unseen called to Len.

Like a light in Barry's body. A beacon.

Last night wasn't Len's only opportunity to be with this remarkable man. There would always be, if he could make the time for them.

This is another opportunity. He has to take it.

Len kisses Barry's mouth, and Barry opens his eyes. He looks at Len. He's drowsy, hovering somewhere between asleep and awake, but he doesn't seem scared or surprised.

"Barry?" Len says.

"Yeah?" Barry says.

"Let me…" Len debates, testing the words out in his head to see if they sound right before he says them. "Let me make love to you?"

Barry smiles, looping his arms lazily around Len's neck. "Of course."

Having sex with Barry should be rushed. Len doesn't really have time for anything else. But it's not. Time seems to slow down around Barry. Len can't explain it. No, it doesn't slow. His concept of it goes straight out the window.

He kisses Barry just as much as before, just as long, holds him just as tight. He rolls over on him slightly, trapping Barry's body beneath him, and pins his hands over his head. He kisses the scars on Barry's shoulders, at the base of his neck. He fills himself with Barry until he can't stand it anymore, and for the second time, he feels himself ripping apart.

He looks Barry over, eyes taking in every line of him, every angle. Len's memory is eidetic, which he used to think was a curse. It stored every instance of his father's sadism, and would bring it back at the most inconvenient times, and with the most vivid of sounds and colors. That's how a gang of older kids got the jump on him in juvie. They pinned him down, pulled out a shank, and he became paralyzed with fear. He didn't see a hulking sixteen-year-old with a gap in his front teeth, chapped lips, and one lazy eye, looming over him. Who he saw was his father, brandishing a switchblade, with his buddies by his side to help him do his dirty work. Even in lock up, surrounded by armed police officers, Len wasn't safe from his old man, not as long as those memories remained carved inside his skull. If it hadn't been for crazy ass Mick Rory taking on everyone at once, Len would have been dead.

A blade right to the heart, just like Barry.

What an odd, chaotic parallel. If Len had died that day in juvie, would Barry's mystery killer have succeeded in stabbing him somehow? On plain old Earth, it sounds like a one-in-a-million coincidence.

Traveling through timelines and changing the future the way Len has already done, it seems like the kind of thing that someone might have orchestrated.

But now, Len sees his memory as a blessing, because it will give him this back – his time with Barry – the teasing, the flirting, the talks and the tattoo, the kiss in the alley, watching a movie together like a regular couple, eating pizza and drinking beer…and making love, with lightning flashing underneath Barry's skin and thunder rumbling outside. Len will replay it when he's alone, when he feels forgotten…when he comes within spitting distance of death yet again.

He'll remember that he got to have this man, and his life will seem a little less dreary.

And yes, it will give him something besides his sister to come back to.

Len doesn't cum hard, his muscles shutting down and his teeth biting into Barry's flesh. It's more soothing this time, like a wave carrying him along. Like returning to something familiar.

Like finding the road home.

When Len slides out of Barry's body, he doesn't feel empty. He feels overwhelmed, like he's taking something with him, something to sustain him. He's wide awake, filling his brain with sounds and smells and tastes to see him through.

Barry, barely awake to begin with, manages to slip back to sleep with a smile on his lips.

Len climbs out of bed. He dresses quietly, then kisses Barry on the forehead.

Len doesn't know when he'll be back, but he will be back. He just wishes he didn't have to leave this way.

His communicator vibrates again – a reminder that for everything that changes, good and bad, some things stay the same.

Len comes to a hasty decision, and leaves something behind, a token that he hopes will make everything right.

 _Hope_. He didn't think he had any to give. He realizes too late, working on borrowed time, that he was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Barry," Len whispers. He heads for the window instead of the front door. As far as Len can tell, Barry didn't re-set the alarm. He opens it enough to slip through, then shuts it behind.

And just like that, he disappears into the rain.

* * *

When Barry wakes the following morning, to the mellow sound of rain pattering against his window, he's alone. He had a feeling he would be. He had prepared himself for the possibility the second he asked Len to stay, but it still stings.

Barry rolls over. His body aches, but it's a good ache. It's a satisfying ache. The ache in his muscles and his limbs will be a comforting reminder throughout the day of the fabulous evening he had.

It's the ache in his heart and in his head that are killing him.

Len didn't just have sex with Barry. He'd consumed him, taken parts of him. Barry wonders if anyone he knows will notice; if they'll be able to see that pieces of him are gone. Barry gets out of bed and looks at himself in the mirror on the wall. He knows that Len had bitten him, but there shouldn't be a mark left.

He looks closely, and he sees one. Right on the smooth skin of the scar above his heart, a deep purple set of teeth marks. Even as he watches them, he can see them fading, but, for some reason, they're going slowly.

He sits back down on the bed, glancing at the time on his phone. He doesn't have to be up for another hour. Well, two really, but he prides himself on getting to his studio early. He hasn't taken a day off or called in sick since the day he opened his doors.

He can afford to take his time.

He flops against the pillow and stares up at the ceiling. Same familiar ceiling, same familiar loft, same old familiar life.

Except that Barry doesn't feel the same.

Something light grazes his arm. He swats at it, thinking it might be an insect, but it crinkles underneath his hand. He turns his head to take a peek. It's a piece of paper, folded in fourths. From Barry's viewpoint, he sees the indentations of writing marring the reverse surface.

A letter.

Barry doesn't know how he missed it before. It had to have been inches from his head. He picks it up, unfolds it, and despite the fact that this could be a _Dear John_ letter, Barry smiles. Len left him a letter. He didn't just walk out and leave without thinking to say a final goodbye. Barry reads five lines in, and smiles wider. The more he reads it, the more he can hear the words in Len's distinctive voice.

 _Barry –_

 _My life is complicated. God, I sound like a fucking broken record, don't I? I'm sorry. But I can't really say more than that. Not in a letter. But I want you to know that I don't want last night to be goodbye. As cliché as it sounds, meeting you has changed me. I know it's only been a day or two, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Time, you may find out one day, means very little to me. And besides, stranger things have happened; I think you know that. But you've helped me realize that there are bigger things in the world for me, something better that I can become, and that it's not just a hope. It is possible. I don't know how to get there yet, but what I do know is I want you to be a part of it. If you feel the same way, if you want to be a part of it, too, and you don't mind a little distance while I sort a few things out, send me a message. I'll be waiting._

 _Len_

Barry doesn't see a number. He re-reads the letter. He turns the paper over and notices, on the folded cover where Len wrote his name, a set of parenthesis, and the words _Look under the pillow. Please don't show anyone!_

Barry sweeps a hand underneath the pillow Len slept on, taking a moment to bury his nose in it and take a sniff, and finds… _something_. It's hard, and small enough to wrap his fingers around. He pulls it out. It looks like an old school Nokia phone – a single square screen above a keypad – nothing too extraordinary. Barry turns the device over in his hand. The casing is smooth; gunmetal grey. It doesn't have any markings, no compartment for a battery, or jacks along the sides. It kind of looks like one of the communicators he used to see the actors talk into on episodes of the original Star Trek.

Kind of space aged. The kind of thing that someone might want to keep a secret.

Something that would make a life _complicated_.

Heart thumping, Barry types in a message – _Hey, stranger_.

He puts down the device and waits for it to do something.

He only gets a second of doubt, to wonder if he did it right, if the message sent at all…if Len changed his mind.

The response message comes in faster than he expected.

 _Hey yourself._


	6. Epilogue

Len strolls the blue-lit walkway from his quarters to the bridge. He passes by Ray, who waves when Len approaches, wearing an expectant smile like he wants to chitchat. But Len blows by him, raising a hand to halt the start of conversation. It's nothing personal, but Len has a hard time stomaching Ray Palmer. He's a nice enough guy, a competent member of the team, a decent fighter, but he's such a God dammed boy scout. He's obnoxiously cheerful and overly-optimistic. Even having the crap beaten out of him in a Russian prison couldn't break him. Len can respect that. But Len prefers to remain cynical and pragmatic.

All in all, Ray's a bit too sheltered and naïve for Len's taste.

In a bizarre twist, Ray actually sort of reminds Len of Barry – extremely smart, trusting, and willing to give almost anyone the benefit of the doubt.

But then again, he doesn't.

For one thing, Barry can read social cues, a talent that Ray, with his genius level IQ, has yet to master.

Social skills aside, Barry Allen is special in a thousand and one ways. Len can't see anyone coming in to his life remotely like him.

Len doesn't feel too guilty about shoving Ray off. The man looks like he's on his way to Kendra's room anyhow.

Besides, Len has got somewhere he needs to be.

He doesn't encounter anyone else on his way to the bridge. Everyone should be bunking down for the time being, though _time_ means next to nothing on the Waverider, and no one really sleeps on the damn thing anyway. Len still goes by the time on his Casio watch. It's utterly useless to keep track of time between time jumps, like teaching a shark to ride a bicycle, but it's one way to maintain some sense of normalcy on this voyage.

The team has come up with a schedule of sorts, retiring to their rooms at a silently agreed upon point to do _whatever_ – train, eat, play cards. The only other person mulling about on the bridge is Rip, sitting in the captain's chair, going over coordinates and some newly assimilated files. What's in them, Len doesn't care too much, as long as Rip doesn't screw shit up, and they don't end up where they're not supposed to be.

Which they most likely will anyway.

Len doesn't mind that Rip is there. True, Len considers what he's doing personal, and he'd rather be alone, but he's not ashamed of it, so he doesn't feel the need to hide it. He hasn't explained it to anyone, and nobody has asked, not even Mick.

It's fairly cut and dry, but even if it wasn't, it's _his_ thing, and nobody gets to take it away.

Rip hears him coming, and without a word, he gets up from his chair. With a tired nod, he hands the bridge over to Len, leaving him to his business.

Len forgoes the captain's chair and sits in his usual seat. He props a leg up on the chair beside him – the one his partner Mick usually occupies – and settles in.

"Gideon…" Len says, addressing the ship's A.I. Before he can make his request, the ship, in its smooth, feminine voice, replies, "The usual, Mr. Snart?"

Len smirks. If it wasn't for the fact that he _does_ do this every twelve hours or so, he would think the ship was being cheeky with him. "Yes, Gideon. The usual."

"Accessing timeline data…Lisa Snart, November 3rd, 2016. Current status…unchanged. Current condition…secure."

Len sighs with relief. After their last few missions, the threats they faced, old and new, he's waiting for the day when someone finds her and tries to use her as leverage.

It's already happened once, and from an unlikely source. He'll be damned if it happens again.

But that day isn't today.

Then again, it wouldn't be a day ending in 'y' if he didn't expect it.

Planning ahead. It's what Leonard Snart does best.

 _Most_ of the time.

"Good. Let's try to keep it that way," he says, more for himself than Gideon.

"Would you like to see her, Mr. Snart?"

"Yes, Gideon," he replies offhandedly, but then sits bolt upright in his chair. "Wait, Gideon…where is she? Is she alone?"

"All scans show that Ms. Snart is in her place of residence, and currently alone."

Another relieved sigh. The last time he nonchalantly requested to see his sister, Lisa was on a date with Cisco.

She was also in Cisco's bedroom, drunk, naked, and riding her boyfriend like he was a race horse in the Kentucky Derby.

That's an image that a thousand thermonuclear explosions would never be able to scour from Len's brain.

Unfortunately, Sara happened to be lurking in the passage right outside the bridge when the audio came through.

He swears, if that woman says, "Yee-haw!" under her breath one more time when she passes him in the hallway, Len is putting her on ice.

Literally.

"Proceed," Len says.

The image that comes through on the console is almost as heart wrenching as watching his baby sister fuck the brains out of a less-than-worthy Casanova.

She's sitting on her bed, cross-legged, with a can of Miller Light in one hand, and a picture of her and Len in the other. He can't see the photograph from the scanner feed, but from the frame it's in, Len knows when it was taken – _years_ before Len ever even knew about the Waverider, before he could classify himself as more than a petty crook. It was their first vacation together since they were kids. Len was on the lam, and they were traveling in disguise (the long, blonde wig Lisa chose for the occasion was definitely a special look), but it was the most fun they had had together in ages. They boosted a car and drove out to the West Coast, to San Diego – a place about as culturally different from Central City as they could get. They didn't hit the beach, but they still had a lot of fun. They didn't really need to hide; no one looked at them twice there. They were just another brother and sister, monkeying around, sightseeing, doing the touristy thing. They snapped some goofy pictures, had a few laughs.

They reclaimed a piece of the childhood their father had robbed them of.

Frankly, Len can't remember a single spot they went to that he enjoyed more than anywhere else.

He just had a blast spending time with his sister.

Len watches her take a sip of her beer. She sniffs and runs the back of her wrist over her eyes, wiping away tears.

"Don't worry, Lees," Len says so Gideon won't hear. Gideon has a habit of innocently commenting during the wrong times. Now would be one of those. "I'll come back soon." Len stares at Lisa's face, turned away from the picture and pointed up towards the sky, searching the stars for her older brother, and he can't take any more. "Okay, Gideon," he says, clearing the hitch from his throat. "Switch, please. And let me see him."

"As you wish, Mr. Snart."

The image on the screen dissolves, then changes, from his sister alone in her room, to two men, both sitting on similar stools, one bent over the other man's bicep, carefully inking an image on to his skin.

"Barry Allen, November 3rd, 2016. Current status…unchanged. Current condition…also secure."

"Doesn't look like it to me," Len mutters.

The sandy blond, muscular uber-jock getting a tattoo of a purple koi watches Barry closely, _too_ closely, his hungry expression making Len curl his fingers into fists.

"So," the man says, leering in a way that has Len scooting to the edge of his seat, "do you ever date clients?"

"Once," Barry answers, rather shortly.

"And…what happened with that one?"

Barry turns to his inks and picks up a darker shade of purple on his needles. "It was about eight months ago. This gorgeous guy came in with his sister so she could get a tattoo."

"Gorgeous, huh?" the man says, sarcastic and unimpressed. "What did this _gorgeous_ man look like?"

"You know, your stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome type, quietly mysterious, and drop dead sexy." The customer's confident smile slips at Barry's description, probably wondering if he measures up. "We went on a few dates," Barry continues, dipping his needles into a glass of water, sighing as he does. "I didn't really get to see him too often at the beginning. He travels for work and whatnot. Things were a little rough, and…"

"And…" the man presses, hopeful that he knows where this is going. Len can see it on the man's face. Shoulder to cry on? Rebound? Revenge fuck? Len leans closer, reaching for his gun. He instantly realizes the futility. What does he think he's going to do with it? Shoot this asshat through about nine timelines, fifty-seven years in the past? But feeling his hand grip the handle of his weapon gives him comfort.

A sudden shift in the image on the screen gives Len more comfort than his gun.

A smile starts on Barry's lips, and doesn't seem to stop. "And, we worked through it. Decided we were better off together than apart. And I'm still with him." Barry turns off his gun to run a thumb over the silver pinkie ring he wears underneath his purple gloves - the one Len gave him on his last visit. "He's still mine…and he's still _drop dead sexy_."

Len chuckles at the sour-faced guy dropping his gaze down to his shoes, then he focuses on Barry's face. Barry licks his lower lip slowly, then bites it, as if he knows Len is watching. Len nearly moans.

 _God_ , he can't wait till he gets to bite that lip for himself. Len's left hand rests over his knee, the intricate tattoo of a snowflake inked on to the back spreading as his skin tightens, the colors exploding in vibrance.

Barry did that snowflake for Len on his last visit home, the same time Len gave Barry the ring. Barry said it was something he'd been thinking about for a while.

Another tattoo he had come up with, especially for Len, that no one else got to have.

It garnered Len quite a few interested looks when he returned to the Waverider, probably more than the huge line of hickeys on his neck. Len reaches out a hand to hover over the screen, tracing the lines of Barry's face in the air. He can't wait to feel Barry's skin beneath his fingertips again, his heat all around him.

Maybe he'll even get another tattoo. Barry was right. You can't stop at just one.

"You bet your ass I'm yours, Barry Allen," Len says, grinning at his boyfriend as he starts shading the koi for his spurned customer. " _All_ yours."


	7. Giving Daddy Some Sugar

**While talking to Len, Barry slips and calls him Daddy (technically, he calls him "Dad", but as Len says, that's semantics). When he does, he comes to find out that Len really likes being called Daddy. (Warning for "phone sex", masturbation, some relationship self-doubt, and one incident of Sara getting shot in the butt)**

 *****This was just a quick little one-shot I wrote because I had this idea and immediately thought of Len and Barry from this series in particular. I'm adding it here so that it doesn't get lost in the shuffle. The title, though admittedly stupid, actually has a double meaning. It doesn't refer only to the sexual aspect of the situation, but the way Barry constantly reassures Len that he wants to be in this relationship, and Len has nothing to worry about. This one-shot also shows how far these two have gotten in this relationship. At this point, Barry knows more about what Len does, he knows about the Waverider, he's met the crew. This way, if I get around to writing the sequel that I want to write, it'll make a bit more sense. I also took some liberties with regard to the tech on the Waverider and with regard to Len's gun. You'll see what I mean when you read it. I hope you guys enjoy it.**

"So, where is it that you're going again?" Len props his feet on the low, metal table in his quarters and lays his cold gun across his lap. Oddly, having his weapon close gives him a measure of comfort, the weight of it pressing on his thighs anchoring him to the here (onboard the Waverider) and now (somewhere over Beijing in the year 2043), which he finds he needs (but hates himself for) while he talks to his boyfriend.

It's not talking to his boyfriend that rifles Len's nerves. It's their current topic of conversation.

"I'm going to a tattoo convention in Baltimore," Barry assures him, patiently, and for about the fiftieth time. "I'm only going to be gone three days, but I'll take my communicator with me everywhere I go. I promise."

Len's lips curl into a half-grin without conscious effort. Barry cut straight to the chase; he knows what to say to assuage Len. With these new communicators Ray built to look exactly like regular Samsung Galaxy phones, Len and Barry can talk any time the Waverider is within transmission range of Earth 2016, and no one would be none the wiser.

But Len wouldn't be Len if he didn't give the people he cared about a hard time.

"And you're going with _who_ again?"

"Well, I'm going with _your sister_ , _her boyfriend_ , and _Iris_ ," Barry stresses with a laugh before arriving at the true point of contention, "and Steve Torrence from The Ink Spot Downtown."

"Do I know this guy?" Len picks up his gun and aims it straight ahead, picturing, at random, one of several guys that he's caught flirting with Barry during his nightly check-ins over the last six months.

"Yes, you know this guy."

"Do I want to kill this guy?"

"You did the first time you met him" - Barry sounds distracted, but Len knows that's only because he's in the middle of packing - "but then I introduced you to his partner and their two daughters, and you were pretty cool with him after that."

 _Pretty cool_ meant Len glared a lot and kept an arm locked around Barry's waist, but didn't say too much.

Len powers up his gun. Barry hears the hum over the communicator and fondly shakes his head. Len has gone from being a reluctant boyfriend (not because he didn't _want_ to be with Barry. Far from it. But because he was afraid that being with Barry meant impinging on his life), to a possessive boyfriend. An _extremely_ possessive boyfriend. Barry doesn't mind possessive Len. In fact, he finds it kind of hot. But it comes with constantly reassuring the man that he has nothing to fear.

Even though Barry knows that Len can flip a switch on that futuristic time traveling ship he's on and see for himself.

But Barry doesn't mind the constant reassuring. He hasn't been as affected by anyone the way he has by Len in a long time, probably not since his lifelong crush on Iris. He has no intention of seeing this relationship end any time soon, especially when Barry and Len get so little time to spend together.

 _Time_. That's the crux of it. Len had told Barry when they first met that Barry would one day discover that time means little to him. And now that they've been dating for a while, Barry gets it. But ironically, time has come to mean _a lot_ to Barry with regard to Len, more than he ever thought possible.

"Okay," Len says, clearing potential targets from his mind and laying the gun back in his lap. "I guess he gets to live."

"That's very generous of you."

"What can I say? I'm a people person."

"You gotta trust me, Len." Barry laughs, slightly exasperated. "Don't you trust me?"

"I _do_ trust you." Len's gaze wanders down to his gun, eyes following the lines that run along the barrel, straight and linear. Not like the scars on Barry's chest that zigzag and fork in every direction. God, he misses those marks, and the smooth skin they're imprinted on. He's itching to trace them with his fingertips again, lick lightly over them until Barry gasps his name. Len runs a finger down the ridge of his weapon from trigger to tip, trying to recreate the sensation. He can appreciate the construction of his weapon, the cool efficiency of its design, but it's in no way the same. Barry isn't cold and metallic. He's heat and electricity and flesh and blood. "It's the rest of the world I'm not entirely kosher with."

"And why do you have to worry about the rest of the world for, huh?"

Len sighs, slightly exasperated himself. Not with Barry, but with the fact that they're having this discussion twenty-seven years apart. There's no way to detour to 2016 so that Len can talk to Barry in person, no way to change course so that Len can go to Baltimore with him. Aside from these new communicators that Ray developed so that Jax could talk to his mom, Dr. Stein could contact his wife, Sara could call her father (then, out of the blue, three just happened to turn up on Len's bunk), Len wouldn't even be able to have this conversation with him.

This was their relationship, the best Len could give Barry at the moment.

Len thinks Barry deserves better.

"Because one day, the world's gonna wake up and realize just how frickin' amazing and special Barry Allen really is, and then…"

"And then, what, Len? I'm going to find someone better? I'm going to leave you for some guy on the street or who walks into my shop?"

Len doesn't give Barry an answer. They've had this conversation one too many times for both their tastes. Barry isn't in any way untrustworthy, but a sliver of insecurity from Len's childhood lurks inside him, the fear that the people he cares about will someday either turn on him or leave. Even with the visible scars from Len's past covered up, Len has emotional scars that his father carved deeper using his sadism and hate, ones he spread wider by telling Len repeatedly, beating into his head that he was insignificant, replaceable...

…worthless.

But Barry reminds Len every day that he's with him that _worthless_ isn't a word that Len uses anymore, especially when he talks about himself. Len is worthy of life, worthy of love, worthy of happiness.

He's just not sure that he's worthy of _Barry_.

"Well, you keep an eye out," Len says, sidestepping Barry's question. "Remember that wolves can walk around dressed like sheep. I should know." Len grins like the wolf he is. "I'm one of them."

"Not that you make a very convincing sheep, but yes, I'll keep an eye out."

"Take the mace I gave you. And the Kubaton. And the Taser. And if you get into any trouble…"

"Run. I know that one already," Barry finishes with a lump in his throat. Len had started saying that to Barry on his last stop off in 2016. Apparently Sara forced the team to watch _Forrest Gump_ the first time they could intercept a decent Netflix signal. Len had never seen the movie before, and admitted that he was offended by about ninety percent of it on the basis of historical inaccuracies alone. But the part before Forrest goes to Vietnam, when his baby mama Jenny tells him that if trouble comes his way, not to be a hero, just run, really struck Len to heart. (Sara claimed that Len almost cried. Len countered that he merely became water-eyed from falling asleep so often with his eyes open.)

But hearing Len recount it slayed Barry.

Barry didn't tell Len that his mother used to say the same thing to him when he was younger, when he was bullied, and it filled him head to toe with soul-wrenching grief. He hid his reaction behind a groan and a kiss, but it cemented for Barry the idea that there was a reason why Len dropped into his life. Nora Allen always told her son that people come into our lives for a reason. So to Barry, hearing Len say those words felt not like serendipity…but like his mother might have sent Len to him. But Barry couldn't tell Len that. Len still struggles with the idea of being considered "a decent human being". Barry telling Len what he believed might make Len distant, and Barry doesn't need that. They already have plenty of distance between them. They don't need any more.

"I mean it, Barry. You have to look out for yourself at all times."

"And I will. But _you_ have to remember that this is Baltimore I'm going to. Not Dubai."

"I don't care if it's motherfuckin' Disneyland. I need you to stay safe, Barry. You understand me?"

Barry _does_ understand. Len knows that he does. They talked about what Barry was getting himself in to by dating Len, full disclosure, no holds barred. And Barry believed every word out of Len's mouth without exception, even before Len took Barry to see the Waverider and meet her crew. That alone could have totally pointed the way to Len believing that Barry was meant for him. But Len has a hard time with that. A hard time believing that fate or the universe or any power that bestows good things on good people would want Len for Barry. Len even went the step of discussing the subject over with Dr. Stein (hypothetically, of course), looking for the educated opinion of a man happily ensconced in a long-term relationship. Unfortunately, Ray got wind of it, but only vaguely, mostly the universe part, and made mention of the fact that most philosophers don't believe that if the universe were a sentient entity it would feel any responsibility toward its inhabitants one iota. So everything that happens on planet Earth happens purely by chance, hence the occasional bouts of chaotic unrest that occur.

Len didn't talk to Ray civilly for three months after that.

But regardless of what Barry understands, Len isn't taking any chances with his safety. The crew of the Waverider has already had run-ins with other rogue time masters, assassins, pirates, dragons, evil scientists, bounty hunters, and some freakish Harry Potter-looking ghost thing called a Time Wraith. Len didn't want any of that finding its way to 2016 to haunt Barry.

Besides, they'd already been to Baltimore 2718. It sucked.

"I hear you, _Dad_ ," Barry teases, just a joke, but for some reason, it makes Len sit up, hold his gun tighter, curl his lower lip between his teeth and bite down.

"You know, you keep running your pretty little mouth like that, Barry Allen, and you're going to get yourself in a whole heap of trouble."

There's a subtle intake of breath, and a pause from Barry's end of the line. "Why? What did I say?"

"You called me _Daddy_."

A longer pause, then Barry chuckles. "Technically, I called you _Dad_."

"Semantics," Len says, readjusting himself in his chair, feet flat on the floor and legs spread. "I knew what you meant."

"You _like_ that?" Barry asks, no longer teasing.

"I don't know. Why don't you call me it again and we'll find out?"

"Alright…" Barry agrees in a lower, seductive tone, "Daddy…"

"Yeah," Len moans behind lips pinched tight. "Yeah, I think I do like it."

"Better than _Captain Cold_?"

"Hmmm, I haven't decided yet. That one's still pretty hot."

"So, what kind of trouble could I get into…Daddy?" Len hears Barry stop packing and climb onto his bed, the telltale sound of sheets shifting and springs compressing that Len has heard dozens of times before cluing him in. Len closes his eyes and pictures Barry lying on his back with the communicator to his ear, hand creeping down his shirt to the hem, slowly lifting it to reveal the marks he knows Len loves.

"I think that depends on which one you call me."

"Which one will get you hotter? _Captain Cold_? Or _Daddy_?"

Len gives it a thought. Eyes still shut, he pictures Barry slipping the shirt off completely and running a hand down his skin to the waistband of his jeans… "If we're just making out, call me Captain Cold. But the next time we make love, I want you to call me Daddy."

"So…would I call you that when you take me from behind?"

"No, I think I'd prefer having you ride me and looking me in the eyes when you call me that."

Barry's gulp resonates through the communicator, pressed against Len's ear so hard it's leaving an indent. "So, you want me to sit in your lap, naked, arms wrapped around your shoulders, legs around your waist, looking into your eyes when I call you _Daddy_?"

"That's right, baby…"

"O-okay…" The word whispers…then it shudders "… _Daddy_ …"

Barry's voice gets huskier, raspier. Len is on the cusp of asking Barry if he's touching himself, where is he and how is he, and is he in any way close, when he hears another voice, a _woman's_ voice, say, "Yee-haw…"

Barry hears it, too, and he knows what it will mean. "Len," Barry says, shunting the greatest orgasm that almost was by squeezing himself tight under the head. "Len, don't do it."

"Too late," he hears Len say, along with a laughing Sara begging, _'No. Don't. I'm sorry. I won't do it again…'_ "I warned her."

" _Len_ ," Barry scolds, but it's not too effective when he's already snickering.

Barry hears the sound of Len's gun fire (a sound that Barry has only heard a handful of times before). In the background, Sara screams. "Christ! That's cold, Len!"

A klaxon wails, and a different female voice - one smooth, suave, and imperceptibly artificial in its perfection - says, "Mr. Snart, I don't think Captain Hunter would appreciate it if he found out that you were discharging your weapon on the ship while we're hovering between time streams."

"Tattletale," Len mutters.

"Mr. Snart," another voice joins in from somewhere farther away, possibly over an intercom, "please refrain from firing your weapon inside the ship. I don't need you blowing a hole through the hull."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Len mutters as the screeching alarm cuts off. "I'll be careful, _Captain_."

"That won't hurt her _permanently_ , will it?" Barry asks. Cock still half-hard in his fist, he despises himself for finding the thought of Len finally making good on his threat to shoot Sara with his cold gun as funny as he does.

"Nah. Our little friend Ray hooked me up, added power settings to my gun. You know, to help with all the Good Samaritan-ing we're doing. Turns out, it works a lot better being one of the good guys when you don't kill everyone you shoot."

Barry snickers so hard, he snorts. "I guess that makes sense."

"Anyway, she started runnin' so I only got her in the left ass cheek. She's got another one. Besides, she's an assassin. It's not like she's a dancer or anything."

"Well, I hope she can at least walk."

"She can hop around on one leg like a flamingo for all I care. How about you?" Len never did get confirmation as to whether or not Barry was jerking it before they were rudely interrupted, but he has his suspicions. And Len's suspicions are usually dead on. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah," Barry says, laughter fading. "Aside from a phenomenal case of blue balls, I think I'll be fine."

Len smiles, but not one of his smug, predatory grins. It's self-conscious, depreciating, bashful. He's blown away by Barry; that such a sincere, genuine man could fall head-over-heels for him, could want him the way that Barry wants him, with the passion that Barry has. What they have between them scorches, but it isn't solely physical. It never was just. But that physical attraction is there, and Barry feels free to act on it whenever they're in contact. Len has never had a relationship like that before; never been with someone who didn't, in some way, want something from him.

But Barry doesn't. All Barry wants is _Len_.

"Well, you can give blowing your wad another shot when you take a shower later. As long as you think of me when you do."

"I can't masturbate without you," Barry says. "It won't be half as good. I'll just have to wait till you call again." Barry sighs. It's the solemn exhale of a man who knows that time is growing short. Barry doesn't need to check his watch to know. He feels it now, the way Len feels it; something inside that marks times whenever they're together. "I miss you, Len."

"I miss you, too, Barry." Len fidgets with his gun in his lap, toying with a thought that's been bouncing around his brain. "Hey, next time I see you, I wanna take you out on a date."

"Really?" Barry flips the script, going from melancholy adult to sounding like an excited little kid, listening to his dad talk about plans to take him to his first major league baseball game. At least, that's how Len equates it. He wouldn't have any experience with that.

"Yeah," Len says, "really. And maybe we can even hang out with Iris, and that Eddie guy of hers."

"That would be…that would be great, but…are you sure?" Barry had expressed his regret once or twice that they couldn't be seen out together in Central City. Barry had hoped against hope that the Waverider would return in time for Len to join him on this trip to Baltimore (as far as Barry knew, Len wasn't wanted in Baltimore) but something of existential importance came up. Len couldn't talk about it. He'd tell Barry afterwards…as usual.

"Yeah. I'll have Ray help me come up with some kind of a disguise or something. I'll figure it out."

"Because that would mean a lot to me."

"I know it would." Len wants to feel proud about that, but it's hard when nearly all of his motivations are selfish. This isn't for Barry alone. In part, it's to help Len convince himself that he can do this. That he and Barry can be together as a normal(ish) couple. That Len can have a life outside of the Waverider and removed from the past.

That there's something he can lateral into when his stint as a hero is over.

"It would mean a lot to me, too," Len admits. He hears static over the line – an unwelcome indicator that it's time to go. "Look, Bare, we're going to be heading out of transmission range, so I'm going to be incommunicado for a while."

"I know," Barry says sadly.

"So, just…take care of you."

"Take care of you, too." Barry smiles so hard his cheeks hurt. It's the closest to _I love you_ that they've gotten, but it'll do. The sentiment is there, wedged between the words. Barry can feel it.

Neither Len nor Barry hang up. The Waverider veers into position to travel through time, and the call cuts out on its own. Len should be getting to the bridge and taking his seat, but he needs a minute to switch gears. Jumping from his life with Barry to his life on the Waverider is more disorienting than leaping through time.

It also leaves a far more painful ache in every muscle of his body.

Len turns his communicator over in his hand, the sleek black skin of the faux phone designed to look like the latest technological marvel since the iPhone 7…but it's so much more. So much more to Len especially. It's a lifeline. Being able to only send dinky text messages to Barry every once in a blue moon had made Len edgy. Everyone with a loved one back in 2016 went through it, too. But when Len heard Ray coming up with this new little toy, Len didn't really give it a second thought. The man was always tinkering with something, usually updates to his own super suit – streamlining the bulky edges, tweaking the boosters, adding new weapons. Len had kept his opinions about Ray's attempts to make a phone-type communicator to himself because, secretly, he'd hoped that if the man succeeded, he could swipe a few. Len hates to admit it, but these God dammed things are a God send, not just for talking with Barry, but with his sister, too.

Len doesn't like being in debt to Ray Palmer, but at every turn, he finds that he is, at least three times over at last count. He'll have to find a way to repay him, even if the only thing he has to offer is watching Ray's back. In a way, Ray giving him these communicators on the sly, leaving them on his bunk and then not saying a thing about them, is affirming. It means that someone else believes in Len, too; in this relationship; and wants to see him happy.

Infuriatingly, if any one person on the Waverider is, it would be Ray Palmer.

"Mr. Snart, would you kindly make your way to the bridge? We would like to travel to our next destination now, _if_ you don't mind."

Len smirks. He's never known a man who can communicate as much condescension in a single sentence as Rip Hunter, besides himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'. Keep your knickers on." Len slides the communicator into his pocket and picks up his gun, both items bringing him an unrivaled sense of security. It'll probably only be around fifteen hours before he talks to Barry again. Ten before Gideon will be able to show Barry to him.

It won't be soon enough.


	8. The Snowflake Tattoo

**On one of Len's trips to 2016, Len asks Barry for a special favor ... he just doesn't make it all that easy for Barry to give it to him.**

 **So this takes place at some point before the epilogue of the original story. It shows Barry giving Len his snowflake tattoo, and Len giving Barry his pinkie ring. It's also a prelude, a bit of foreshadowing, for the sequel that I'm writing that I hope to have up soon. There is also a nod to Crimson1's fic "Unexpected Ink" in here. For those of you who haven't read her fic, let's just say that Barry was originally going to threaten Len with a Tweety Bird tattoo xD Warning for Len giving Barry a handie at an inappropriate time, and a little bit of angst.**

"Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?" Barry mutters, pacing through his mostly empty shop. He picks up pieces of trash, and wipes down work stations as he passes them by regardless of if they're dirty or not, keeping himself busy to keep from going insane.

"Who?" Molly, working late putting the finishing touches on a full sleeve, asks. She smirks as Barry obsessively tidies up her station, collecting stained paper towels and empty dye cups. "Your _man_?"

" _No_ ," Barry responds without thinking, then quickly backpedals. "Well, _yes_ , but I'm referring to my _next client."_ He spits the two words out like they're tacks on his tongue. "Apparently some guy called last minute and _somebody_ squeezed him in." He glares at his receptionist, Colette, sitting behind her counter, calmly reading a current issue of _Inked_.

"Not my fault," she claims, licking her fingers and flipping the page. Barry decides at that moment that that issue is going home with her. "He was _very_ persuasive."

"Oh yeah?" Barry turns up the wattage on his glare but he can't keep it up. He doesn't get miffed at his staff too often, or for too long. They work too hard, they support him no matter what, and besides – he's too excited to be angry. "What _exactly_ did he say?"

"I said," a voice booms from the front door, one that has Colette grinning and Barry's eyes widening before it speaks another word, " _if you give me the last time slot, you'll probably get a bonus_."

"Len?" Barry spins so quickly, he looks like a smear of red shirt, brown pants, and blue Converse. The moment he sees Len, Barry's eyes light up – literally. Len can swear he sees a crackle behind them, like bottled lightning bubbling underneath. It has to be the time sickness, Len thinks. His vision's been kind of shifty the entire walk over. He still can't manage those jumps without getting a colossal headache. They last a few hours sometimes. That has to explain this. He's seeing things. "You're here!"

"Yeah, Red." Len falls backward a step with an _oof_ when Barry leaps into his arms. The nickname is recent - a nod to Barry's obsession with the color red. Half of the t-shirts he owns are red … and most of his underwear. "I'm here."

Barry doesn't give Len the chance to say another word, fitting his mouth over his boyfriend's while Len slides a hand underneath Barry's ass for a gratuitous squeeze. And that's it – the universe around them disappears. Evaporates completely away. Wrapped up in each other's arms, lost in their own world, Barry and Len don't hear the tittering of two employees and a customer watching them with rolled eyes and bitten lips.

"I missed you, big guy," Barry murmurs into Len's mouth.

"I missed you, too, Red." Len's eyes shift to the side, peering around Barry's body when a titter turns into a snort. "Uh … do you think we can be alone?"

"What? Oh." Barry snickers like he genuinely forgot that anyone else was still around. "Hey, Moll?" he calls over his shoulder, but he doesn't let that stop him from kissing Len's mouth and chin. "You almost done?"

"Just finished, boss," she says. "I'm taping up now."

"Good. When you're done, I want everybody out."

"Don't you want us to stay and help you clean up?" Colette teases. _Right. Like she ever cleans._

"No," Barry says. "Just go."

"Are you _sure_?"

Barry snaps his head to the side and raises his voice. "Do you want that bonus or not?"

"I'm going, I'm going." She rushes past in mere seconds with her coat already on and buttoned to the neck. "Have a nice night you two."

"Oh, we will." Len winks, but at Barry, not at her.

Molly's customer follows, leaving with an uncomfortable nod and a wave for the two men wrapped around one another without a care in the world. Finally Molly, rushing for the door, tossing the sleeves of her jacket over her arms as she goes.

"Bye, Barry. Bye, Len."

"Bye, Molly," they both manage to mutter, but not all the words together, and not at the same time. Len may have said _bye_ , and Barry may have added _Molly_ , but no one knows. Len hears Molly pull down the gate, and with the click of a padlock, they're completely alone.

"So," Barry says as Len returns his feet to the floor, "you wanna go upstairs? Grab a _bite_?"

"In a bit." Len resists (with superhuman willpower) that suggestive whisper of Barry's. Barry wields it with the most innocuous of phrases, turning them into seductive sentences. "But not yet."

Barry frowns, but he's more wary than disappointed. As eager as Len always sounds to talk to him while he's away, Barry knows this long-distance relationship must be hard on him. It's hard on _Barry_. Barry has no intention of giving up, but what if, someday, Len decides it's too difficult on his end to continue? They may have only been seeing each other for a relatively short time, but time means nothing to them. It feels like they've known one another forever … and Barry's not ready to say goodbye. "Is … is something wrong?"

"No. Not at all." Len gives Barry's ass another reassuring squeeze. "I was just going to ask for a favor."

"Oh. Okay." Barry sounds slightly more relieved, but also slightly more confused. "What's the favor?"

"Can I get another tattoo?"

Barry's lips split into a grin so blissful, it stutters Len's heartbeat. "Really? You want another one?"

"Yup." Len loves his dragon more than anything he's ever owned, even his gun, but he wants something that's easier for him to see. Something he doesn't have to get undressed and stand in front of a mirror to look at, especially aboard the Waverider. He wants something that he can gaze at while he's in bed talking to Barry, feeding his fantasies of his boyfriend before he tries to go to sleep. "I was thinking, maybe, on my arm? Or the back of my hand?"

Barry bites his lips together as if he was hoping Len would say that. "Well, as a matter of fact, there _is_ something I've been thinking up for you."

"Great." Len lets go of Barry so he can lock the inner front door. "How much?"

"Nu-uh." Barry grabs Len's hand and drags him over to his work station. "This one's on the house. Consider it a gift."

" _Barry_ …"

"Just … stop being stubborn and let me give you a present," Barry argues, pushing Len into a chair. "I thought this tattoo up for you. No one will ever have it if I don't put it on you, and I'm not charging you for it."

"I could always just figure out a price and slip the money into your register," Len counters as Barry slips on a pair of purple nitrile gloves and starts getting his dye cups set up.

"Yeah? Well, I could take that money back out of the register and give it to your sister after you leave."

Len opts for an impressed face instead of arguing further. "You're a shrewd negotiator, Mr. Allen."

"I consider that a compliment coming from you, Captain Cold."

"You should." Len chuckles, but Barry just stares at him, eyes hopeful. And Len caves, because he can't deny Barry anything. "Okay, okay, it's a gift. But just this once."

Barry smirks triumphantly. "Of course." He puts a fresh set of needles on his gun. "Far be it for me to keep you from spending money that isn't yours." He's kidding, but his words still carry a bitter tang.

"Hey, if I go through the trouble of stealing it, it belongs to me," Len jokes, but lightly, and with a fair amount of guilt. Over time, Barry found out about Len's criminal exploits. Len came clean about his past, told Barry about the majority of it. A few Barry discovered for himself using Google. Some of them were easy to stomach; some of them, a hell of a lot harder. But through it all, Barry chose to judge Len for the man he knows, not the man Len was, even if Barry does take a jab at him from time to time. But Barry only treads ankle deep into the minor infractions. He doesn't hold the larger, more amoral ones over Len's head. Len was raised to be a career criminal by the same monster who carved those disgusting, hateful words down Len's back. It wasn't Len's choice. And besides, the man Barry met while giving Lisa her tattoo, the one who travels through time on the Waverider and saves people - he's not a criminal in Barry's eyes. He's a legend. "But that doesn't matter because I haven't done that in a while."

"A long while?" Barry asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, Barry. A long, long, _long_ while."

Barry motions for Len's hand and Len offers him the left one. Barry pulls up a small table. He presses Len's hand flat on it, then starts cleaning the skin on the back.

"If I recall," Len continues, "your heart is the last thing I stole."

Barry's smile burns slow, like he's trying to hold it back, but when he can't, he snickers. "That's really corny, do you know that?"

Len leans forward, coming forehead to forehead with Barry, breaking through the veil of Barry's concentration. "Did you like it?"

Barry's mouth meets Len's for a quick kiss. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Satisfied, Len sits back in his chair and out of Barry's light. Not that Barry needs it. Len's pretty sure Barry can give him this tattoo in the dark. "So, whaddya have in mind this time?"

"Nu-uh. You don't get to know what it is until I'm done."

"That's kind of an unusual way to do things in a tattoo parlor, ain't it?"

Barry holds his gun over Len's hand, preparing to switch it on. "Do you trust me?"

"More than anyone in my life right now."

"Then let me do my job." Barry winks. "Gun on." Barry makes it a point to warn Len before he switches his gun on, just in case. Lord knows what Len's done or seen out on the Waverider. Barry doesn't want to take any chances and accidentally trigger unpleasant memories.

Len appreciates it. He doesn't feel like Barry's babying him or handling him with kid gloves. Barry is concerned about him. It's nice to have that in his life from someone other than Lisa. He's not about to admit that Lisa was right about all of this though. He'd rather lob off his hand again.

Len has considered the very real possibility that Barry may actually love him. Len doesn't know yet. Barry hasn't said the actual words, but Len hasn't either. He just sort of feels like he _knows_. Barry's not all that adept at hiding his feelings. He gives Len his all whenever Len's in town – his time, his attention, a place to stay and food to eat. Len thinks that Barry may have come close once or twice, but that's been during sex. Len knows better than to look for truth in any confession made while his dick's in someone else's body.

But one day, Len's going to have to find a way to wheedle it out of him, see if he's right.

Not tonight though. Tonight Len will pretend that they have all the time in the world to stay at Barry's place and simply be with one another.

"So, how long so you think this is gonna take?" Len asks, watching Barry draw an outline on the back of his hand in silver ink. From the shape of it, it looks like it could be a star. Or a spider web. "Ballpark?"

"Um … about an hour, I think? Maybe less if the shading goes off without a hitch." Barry grows the image from the outside in, carefully going back over the lines twice to make sure they're smooth. Len appreciates Barry's perfectionism, his attention to detail, even if going over those lines on this particular area of skin smarts like the dickens.

Len watches Barry's face, tongue trapped between his teeth as he susses out the image, letting it emerge beneath his gun without a guide like he does all of his tattoos. It's a mesmerizing process to behold, how Barry takes a void of blank skin and creates a masterpiece entirely from scratch. But Len misses Barry. He misses touching Barry, kissing Barry, feeling Barry quiver underneath him. Being this close to Barry without having his naked body pressed against Len's is something Len is having a difficult time waiting for. So since Len's going to be sitting there for an hour, he figures he'll distract himself.

And maybe Barry, too, for that matter.

Len leans forward in his chair and rests his right hand on Barry's knee. Barry doesn't say anything. He's used to Len touching him. It's when Len's hand starts making its way up Barry's thigh that Barry's eyebrows lift.

"Uh, Len …" Barry's grin climbs up his cheeks "… what are you doing?"

"I was just thinking …" Len's hand creeps further up Barry's leg towards his crotch "… how badly could I bother you while you're working and still get a halfway decent tattoo?"

"I guess that depends on if you want it turning out looking like Hello Kitty or not."

"Lisa would _love_ that." Len pops the buttons to Barry's fly with a single tug, then sneaks his hand past the waist band to find Barry already growing in anticipation of Len's touch. Thank God Barry's not a fan of super tight jeans or else this would be unnecessarily difficult.

"Are you really doing this now?" Barry asks. He switches inks, shifting subconsciously in his seat to accommodate the fingers wrapping around his cock.

"Barry, I've been away from you for _months_. Yes, I'm really doing this now."

"Len," Barry complains, then moans, " _Jesus_ ," with Len's first stroke down and up. Len's hand, warm and dry, finds a rhythm along Barry's skin that's steady, easy for Len to maintain with his arm torqued in this awkward position. Barry gasps softly while Len strokes, focused on not moving or twitching too much so as not to screw up Len's tattoo. But staying how he is, his body stalwart against this erotic assault while his mind and hands work, is torture.

When a small pearl of pre-cum dots the tip of Barry's cock, Len's instinct is to swipe it up and lick it off his finger, but the need to keep this rhythm up, to not let go, is so much stronger. "Mmm, maybe we _should_ have gone upstairs first," Len murmurs as he brings a thumb up and over the head of Barry's cock to collect it, and then wipes it down Barry's shaft.

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm _dying_ to taste you."

" _Fuck_ …" Barry groans, swallowing heavily. "Th-that is rather unfortunate, isn't it?"

"Yeah. But if I get you to cum like this, then I can lick you off my hand."

Barry whines. " _Len_ … you can't … _mmm_ … you can't say that when …"

"When …?"

"When I can't get to you."

"But you have me, Barry. Absolutely and completely. And the second you're done with that tattoo, I get my turn, don't I?"

"Yes …" Barry whispers, barely breathing as Len's hand picks up speed. Barry spreads his legs wider, and Len pulls in closer.

"Though, I think I could do this all night if you're going to take your time with that tattoo," Len teases. "Heat you up and then …" Len stops stroking "… cool you down."

"Oh God," Barry mutters, pausing only a millisecond when his eyelids flutter closed. "Don't do that, Len ... just …"

"But it's so much fun, Red." Len strokes fast, then stops short. Barry squirms in his chair, his legs shuddering the second Len's hand comes to a halt.

Fisting over Barry's cock, stopping and starting, stopping and starting, has Barry muttering in frustration around helpless mewls. Len brings Barry close to cumming, and Len could just let him, but he's too fascinated watching Barry work under pressure. Aside from the man's cock in his hand, throbbing every time Len squeezes, and his fidgeting legs, which probably wouldn't be obvious to anyone not sitting close up and personal, Len wouldn't be able to tell that Barry is in any way distracted. For a moment, a moment that Len hates himself for, he imagines Barry cracking a safe or hacking into a database … or aboard the Waverider. Doing what, Len doesn't know. Barry said he has a background in science. Forensics. That could be useful somehow. But even if Barry doesn't have a "questionable" specialty the way the rest of them do, his calm under stress, nearly unfaltering, is a talent that Len envies.

Len can be cool as a cucumber when he wants to, but he's had slip ups. True patience is not a skill that can be taught, regardless of what Lewis Snart believed. Barry is like a man split in two, existing in a place where he can feel and experience fully, and another where he can push that aside.

Len wants to know how far that goes, how much Len has to push to make those personas smack back together.

He wants to know what he has to do to make Barry surrender.

He can't rely on tormenting Barry's body to do that for him. He has to get into Barry's mind.

"Barry," Len says, slowing his strokes to a gentle massage, "I want you, Barry Allen. So damn much …"

"J-just … g-give me a mo-moment," Barry begs, scooting towards the edge of his chair to persuade Len to speed up. "I'm almost done …"

"No, Barry. I want you _now_. I want down on my knees so I can blow you in that chair."

"I don't think I'd be able to work on your tattoo that way." Barry hiccups, and his non-gun hand shakes, but so imperceptibly, Len's surprised that even he noticed.

"Well, we could take a tiny break then, couldn't we? So I can have my mouth full of you?"

The sound Barry makes next is high-pitched and strangled, his legs fighting the shudder to simply tap out a beat while his hand moves faster, desperate to get Len's tattoo done before he cums.

"God, I love having you in my mouth, Barry. You know, I've never met a man who tastes the way you do. It's not something I particularly enjoy, giving head, so I don't do it. But with you, I can't help myself. Could you imagine being on the Waverider with me? I'd never get anything done cuz I could never get my fill of you."

"G-god …" Barry moans, teeth clenched. For Len, Barry's locked jaw brings to mind the last time he and Barry had sex – Barry in his lap, fucking him with all his limber strength and encompassing heat, mumbling a constant mixture of Len's name and _oh God_ until, right before he came, all he could say was _oh Len_ , which, of course, Len preferred much better.

"Or, I could let you fuck me, Red. We've only done that a few times, but you're so damn good at it." Barry sucks his trembling lower lip between his teeth and bites down. Len smiles. Now he's getting somewhere. "I think that's exactly what I need after so many months away from you – a nice, slow, relaxing fuck. Whaddya think? Would you do that for me?"

"Yes … oh _God_ , yes …"

Barry's close, but somehow he's finding a way to keep himself from tripping over that edge. But Len has plenty of tricks up his sleeve, one that he think might be the key. He stops stroking and lets go. Barry sighs in frustration and relief. Len smirks, because he's not done with his boyfriend yet. He licks his palm and goes back to stroking before Barry can take a solid breath, and that does it. Barry's hips jump from that sensation of wet along with Len's heat. He drops down in his seat, unable to sit up straight anymore with the pressurized pleasure that's filling his body. Barry's needles dig into Len's hand, and even though Len hisses, he barely feels it because the expression on Barry's face becomes transcendent.

"Jesus," Barry moans, retaining enough sense to turn off his machine as he starts to buck into Len's fist, " _Christ_."

"There you go, baby," Len says, watching transfixed as Barry inches closer and closer, his head tilted back with eyes closed, mouth twisted into a smile of ecstasy. "How's that feel? You been missin' that?"

"Yes," Barry gasps, grabbing blindly for a paper towel to cover his cock so he doesn't spurt cum all over his sterile work station. "Yes. Goddammit … I … that was …" Barry rolls his head to his right and chokes. " _Uh oh_. Ah …" Barry puts a hand over Len's to block his view.

"Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easily." Len yanks his hand out from underneath Barry's. "Let me take a look at _oh shit_!" Len laughs at the string of wobbly lines and wonky coloring that used to be a perfect, shimmering snowflake.

"Wait, wait, wait." Barry grabs a spray bottle of cleaner and starts re-sterilizing his work space. He hastily shoves his limp cock back in his pants, then snaps on new gloves. He switches out his needles and gets fresh dyes, rushing as if the devil himself were his client. "I can fix it."

"I know you can." Len reclines in his chair, leisurely licking Barry's cum from his hand while Barry works. "I'm not worried one bit."

Barry flattens Len's messed up hand on the freshly cleaned work space. He wipes down Len's tattoo with a wet paper towel to clear off the excess ink and see what he has to work with. He glances momentarily at his boyfriend, whimpers when Len's tongue wraps around his index finger, then gets back to work.

After that detour, Barry is complete focus … and incredible speed. So much so that Len sits up, his eyes drawn to the way Barry moves.

Len's been gone a while, but still, what the hell's happened between then and now? Did Barry fall into a vat of toxic waste or get bitten by a radioactive spider and neglect to tell him?

Barry has this tattooing thing on lock, moving between lines and colors, cleaning his needles and reworking the image. The new picture seems to move across Len's skin under Barry's gun, changing, rearranging, transforming, until what had started out as an amazing snowflake is now an exceptional snowflake.

In barely five minutes, Barry shuts off his gun and wipes down Len's hand, not acknowledging with any conceit the feat he completed in Guinness World Record time.

"What do you think?" Barry asks, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash. He overlooks Len's pinched brow of confusion, his eyes darting between Len's unreadable face and the tattoo, waiting impatiently for Len's seal of approval. "Do you … do you like it?"

Len holds his hand up to the light so he can get a better look. "It's incredible," he says, turning his hand and examining the inks, a gradient of colors from white to silver to blue layered in so many hues that they seem to twinkle as he moves. "Absolutely." But aside from the wonder of Barry's talent, these awe-inspiring pieces of art that he comes up with in a flash, it's _how_ he works that has Len dumb-struck … and concerned. This thing that Barry does, this blur that he becomes – it's not natural.

It's not _human_.

Len doesn't want to put too much weight on it, but every time he sees Barry, this speed of his … it increases.

Len forces a smile more than usual; he doesn't want Barry to know that he's worried. "Are you ever gonna tell me how you work that fast?"

"Nu-uh," Barry says, obviously less worried than Len. "Trade secret."

Maybe Barry doesn't notice, Len thinks. Maybe he doesn't see or feel how much he's changed. But if that strange vibrating thing is happening to Barry on the outside, Len can't help but wonder what's happening to him on the inside. The only way he would ever know would be to take Barry to the Waverider and have Gideon do a full work up on him.

But how badly would it destroy Barry's life if Rip Hunter knew what Barry could do?

That point's moot because, without doing some severe damage to the timeline, there will be no hiding this from Rip. Time Masters have a way of finding out everything. If something is happening to Barry, some kind of transformation, then it's already written into the timeline … and Rip will find out about it eventually.

If that time comes and Rip, or anyone, comes after Barry, will Len be able to protect him?

Will Len be _around_ to protect him?

That may be a convincing argument for leaving the Waverider for good.

"Hey … hey, Len ... Leonard …" Len looks away from his snowflake and into the troubled eyes of his boyfriend. "Hey. Where did you go just then? You disappeared on me for a bit."

"Here." Len doesn't answer Barry's question. He can't. If he's afraid of what may happen in the future due to natural progression, he's not about to jumpstart anything with an explanation. "I want you to have this."

Barry's seen the ring before. Len wears it on and off, but Barry has never asked him about it. Barry's thoughts about it border between it being extremely important, and not so important. But as Len wrenches it off his finger and slips it onto Barry's, Barry can't help feeling that it's more important than he gave it credit for.

"Wha-" Barry gapes at the ring when it's finally on his finger, "what is this for?"

"I've had this ring for a long time," Len says, curling Barry's fingers, then holding his fist. "It's a relic from a less than stellar past. But it means something to me, something important. Something that I've needed to be reminded of again and again over the course of my life."

"And what's that?"

"That I'm my own person. That no matter what hand the universe deals me, my choices are my own. I want you to remember that you are your own person, Barry Allen. That no matter what, no matter what choice you're given, your decisions are your own. And you have to do what's best for you." Len brings Barry's fist to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. "The future needs you, Barry Allen."

Barry stares at Len, his boyfriend's eyes closed as his lips gently brush Barry's skin, and Barry feels breathless. Breathless over Len's sincerity, and at the conviction behind his words … their unexpected urgency. Suddenly, he becomes afraid. "I guess you would know, huh?"

Len shrugs. "Maybe." His gaze lifts, and he looks in Barry's eyes. "But _I_ need you, too. And that's the only future I care about. Yours and mine."

Barry nods. Something's going on with his boyfriend. Barry doesn't know exactly what yet, and he's sure that Len will tell him in time, but that doesn't make Barry any less uneasy. Barry presses his lips to Len's forehead, needing to be closer to the man now more than before.

"Take me upstairs?" Barry whispers. "And make love to me? And let's … not get out of bed again until you have to leave. We can order in, eat naked, shower often, and forget that everyone else exists for a while. What do you say, big guy?"

"That sounds like a plan," Len says. "One we should get started on yesterday. Maybe earlier." Barry stands and takes Len's right hand, leaving the left with the snowflake tattoo un-taped until they get upstairs. He leads Len through his shop to the staircase at the back. "Should we order a pizza?" Len asks as Barry unbolts the door.

"Duh," Barry says. "What the hell else is there to eat?"


End file.
